


The Prince, the Guard, and the Many-Eyed God

by ewelinakl



Series: Children of the Many-Eyed God [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Tyvian Gods, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Past Sexual Abuse, Jindosh gets a redemption arc because that non-lethal solution still haunts me, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, Rat Plague | The Doom of Pandyssia, Repressed Memories, Slackjaw and Curnow are sentimental fools starved for affection, Slackjaw is a Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 55,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25974925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: The Old Gods of Tyvia choose strange paths for their children.Slackjaw's path leads through the criminal underworld of Dunwall and into the arms of a Watchman.
Relationships: Geoff Curnow/Slackjaw, Slackjaw & Black Sally, Slackjaw & Daud, Slackjaw & Kirin Jindosh, background Daud/Thomas
Series: Children of the Many-Eyed God [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186883
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. The One-Eyed Bird of Kismet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Slackjaw builds an empire, falls for Geoff Curnow, and survives the Rat Plague.

**i.**

It starts the way it always does for men like them — during Fugue.

In Dunwall, there are several places where those with a taste for their own sex can find a partner, The Drunken Whaler being the most popular of them, if only because of its location — in the neutral zone, where everyone can shake off their affiliation for a short while.

When Slackjaw walks in, all eyes are on him right from the get-go. He’s dressed to the nines in his finest silks and gaudiest patterns, his bowler hat tipped nonchalantly to the side, the rings on his fingers catching light as he moves through the bar in a languid stride of a wild cat on the hunt.

Several men watch him with clear interest, sending more or less overt invitations, but Slackjaw pays them no mind. The night is still young, he’ll have plenty of time to take his pick after the customary round of greetings.

He tips his hat and bows exaggeratedly to Lizzy Stride, preoccupied with a pretty, well-dressed girl, possibly a noble. Lizzy guffaws, flashing her filed teeth and raising her glass in response.

There are a few Hatters at the bar, but they’re of no importance, so Slackjaw ignores them. The real players — the Geezer and his puppeteer, Trimble — are not the kind to show up at a place like The Drunken Whaler, which Slackjaw supposes is a blessing in and of itself.

The Knife of Dunwall is nowhere to be seen, either, as per usual. The rumour has it that he has no interest in either sex or drink and spends his Fugues reading. Billie Lurk, the Knife’s second in command, however, sits in her usual spot in the corner. This time instead of a girl, she’s accompanied by a freckled blonde boy that Slackjaw only recognises by the voice, once he steps closer to greet Lurk. The boy’s another one of Daud’s — Thomas, if Slackjaw remembers correctly. Who knew there was such a pretty face hiding behind the whaler mask.

Then he turns to the Queen of the Crime Underworld herself, Black Sally, who smiles, opening her arms to hug him tight. She’s stunning as ever and Slackjaw sees half of the bar staring at her with mouths hanging open. Sally pretends to not have noticed.

“Lookin’ dapper tonight,” she says, winking, as she smoothes down the collar of his shirt.

Slackjaw feigns offence. “Ain’t I always lookin’ dapper?”

“To me you’ll always be a wee lad in patched trousers and leaky boots, Slackjaw,” Sally teases with a small, tender smile on her lips.

She looks somehow older, more tired than Slackjaw remembers. Worried.

He’s heard about Sally’s gang's hideouts being raided by the Watch, her people dropping like flies. He thought the rumours greatly exaggerated. Now that he looks in her face, he begins to think that the reality was much worse than the rumours claimed.

“How’s you faring, Sal?” he asks, dropping all affectation. He owes Sally a lot and he’s a man of his honour at the end of the day. He’ll go to great lengths to pay his dues.

Sally clicks her tongue and pats him on the cheek. “This ain’t the time for a chat like this,” she chastises. “I’ll drop by the distillery some time, we’ll have a little heart to heart then. But now go, enjoy the Fugue while it lasts.”

Slackjaw knows her well enough to understand that she won’t tell him a thing about her troubles tonight. He sighs, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, kissing it with reverence. “Do drop by, Sal,” he says. “Slackjaw will help, whatever it is.”

She nods, smiling. It’s not her usual bright, ravenous grin. It’s paler, sadder. “A’ight,” she promises. “I’ll see you ‘round, lad. Go now, happy huntin’.”

He forces a chuckle and bows his head, turning towards the counter. He’s gonna need a drink to lift his spirits, shake off the prickling anxiety that rubbed off on him.

He’s almost at the bar, when he hears an all-too-familiar snarl from behind his back.

“Slackjaw.”

He halts, nostrils flaring, teeth bared in a grimace that’s half annoyance, half wicked amusement. Funny how out of all the people in this Voidforsaken town this is the man Slackjaw stumbles upon in a place like The Drunken Whaler, just after talking to Black Sally.

“Captain Curnow,” he drawls, turning around. Curnow has to tilt his head back to meet Slackjaw’s eyes. There’s something perversely satisfying about it. “I was under the impression that the Watch wasn’t on duty during Fugue.”

Curnow's eyes narrow, his arms are crossed over his chest, posture rigid. He’d love to arrest every gang member on the spot, drag them all straight to Coldridge. But it’s Fugue. Curnow can’t do shit and has him fuming.

“We’re not,” he spits eventually, his tone acidic. “Luckily for you, I suppose.”

Slackjaw chuckles lowly, rounding his shoulders, and leaning down to whisper into Curnow’s ear. “Come on, Captain. You wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on me, Fugue or not.”

Curnow grinds his teeth and sets his jaw, eyes burning. They’re blue, Slackjaw notes, pretty. It’s the first time he really sees the bastard from up close, and he has to admit that Curnow is attractive, if in an unusual way. It’s not an observation he wants to be making right now.

His first instinct is to simply kick Curnow out of the bar, but his gaze falls upon Sally, slumped in her chair across the room, subdued and pensive, and he decides against it.

Whatever problem Sally has, it’s caused by the Watch. Curnow's a high-ranked officer, he might give them an edge, if only Slackjaw can get him to spill the beans.

He gestures at the barmaid, who immediately pours two drinks of whiskey for him. A few patrons waiting in line shoot him vicious looks he ignores. The Drunken Whaler might be a no-man’s land, but it’s Slackjaw’s whiskey they serve here and this gives him an upper hand. If anyone's got a problem with that, they’re more than welcome to step outside and get acquainted with his trusty old cleaver.

He grabs the tumblers from the counter and holds one to Curnow, who eyes it warily. “If Slackjaw wanted you killed, you’d be long dead by now, Captain,” Slackjaw drawls, baring his teeth. “And I assure you, he wouldn’t use no poison. Slackjaw's a lot of things, but he ain’t a coward.”

Curnow snatches the glass, making sure his fingers don’t so much as brush against Slackjaw’s, his face pinched in outrage. Slackjaw chuckles at the sight.

This might be fun, after all.

“I tell you what, Captain,” Slackjaw says, gesturing to an empty table in the corner, “why don’t we have a drink and bury the hatchet for a short while?”

Curnow scoffs, his fingers tightening over his tumbler. “Why would I get friendly with someone of your sort?”

He’s all high and mighty in his contempt, convinced that he’s better than everyone around just ‘cause he’s the Empress’ dog. And yet here he is, at The Drunken Whaler during Fugue, holding a drink Slackjaw bought him, his gaze wandering around Slackjaw’s frame in a very telltale way.

Take the collar off a guard dog and he’ll be just another cur.

“Come on, Captain,” Slackjaw purrs, smirking. “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”

“Marquez,” Curnow says, slowly, with shock that’s almost comical.

Slackjaw sucks his teeth. “Common mistake,” he says. “It’s Morales, actually. From the time when he was Marquez’s protege. Personally, I like his later poems better.” He takes a sip of the whiskey, swirling it in his mouth, tasting the subtle floral undertones. His boys are getting better at this shit. “Now, Captain, how ‘bout we sit down, before someone takes that damn table?”

It’s more a command than an offer, really, so Curnow bristles and grinds his teeth. He makes his way to the table, though, giving Slackjaw a wide berth.

Slackjaw chuckles, gesturing at the barmaid to get them something to chew on. Food makes any social situation more bearable.

"I didn't think you'd be—," Curnow says, once Slackjaw sits down opposite him, but breaks off immediately, shaking his head.

"That I'd be what?" Slackjaw inquires, resting his elbows on the table. "A poetry connoisseur?" he supplies in a mocking posh accent. "A man of culture?"

Curnow doesn't answer, taking a sip of his whiskey and averting Slackjaw's eyes. There's a pale blush creeping up his cheeks and neck.

Slackjaw grins. This is so much more entertaining than he expected.

"To be fair," he says, winking at the barmaid and sliding her a heavy pouch of coins after she brings them a bowl each of pickled eels and mushrooms, and a platter of cheese, "I ain't big into poetry. I'm more of a novel man. Tyvian stuff, mostly. Nazareva, Malakov, that kinda thing."

Curnow looks up with the same surprised expression on his face, momentarily transfixed by the sight of Slackjaw swallowing an eel. "I don't think I'm familiar with those," he says eventually. "What do they write about?"

Geoff Curnow admitting ignorance and genuinely asking for information is not a turn of events Slackjaw saw coming. He’s not going to complain about it, though.

"Existentialism. All about human nature. You know, the good, bad an’ ugly of it,” he replies, shrugging. “Some killer redemption stories, I’ll tell you that, especially Nazareva’s. You should give it a try, maybe you’ll like it," Slackjaw says, pushing the cheese plate towards Curnow.

He doesn't reach for a toothpick like some pretentious wannabe noble and silly as it is, it makes Slackjaw respect him a lot more.

"Maybe I will," Curnow agrees, choosing a piece of hard sheep's cheese. "I haven't had much time for reading lately," he admits after a moment and there's something unguarded and honest about his face when he says that, something that makes it more of an intimate confession than a casual remark. Slackjaw has no clue how they got this far in such a short time.

"You're in a sucky position, Cap'n," he says, hiding his puzzlement behind vexing. "No offense," he adds when Curnow glares at him. "All I’m sayin' is that it gotta be tough,” he continues, shrugging as he pops a mushroom into his mouth. They’re good tonight, the perfect combination of sweet, salty and acidic. “It’s like you’s in power, but not really, and it sucks, don’t it?”

Curnow scoffs, his face hardening into the familiar mask of anger and contempt. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Slackjaw.”

“Don’t I?” Slackjaw grins, accepting the challenge. “Lemme see. You’re an officer. You’ve got power, authority, and people who answer to you.” He leans back in his chair to get a better look at Curnow, his narrowed eyes and mouth pressed into a thin line. “Sure, you ain’t got no free time, but that’s temporary. As soon as you climb that one step higher, it will all change, it will all get easier, right?”

He’s openly mocking by now, but to Curnow’s credit, he takes it with dignity, listening in silence, simply waiting for the right moment to bite back.

“How many years you been tellin’ yourself that, Cap’n?” Slackjaw asks, swirling his whiskey around the glass. “There’s always that one more step to climb, that one more river of shit to go through, one more asshole to spit in your face. And you just take it like a good little bitch, ‘cause they give you a shiny title and a pretty uniform. Now, ain’t that sad?”

Curnow slams the tumbler against the table, spilling the rest of his drink, his gaze blazing, teeth gritted and bared. Slackjaw swallows. He went too far this time.

He wants to apologise, but Curnow cuts him off, before he has a chance to speak,

"I'm not doing it for a _title_ ," Curnow spits, pressing his palms against the table and leaning closer, lowering his voice into a dangerous growl that stirs something inside Slackjaw in a very wrong way. "I don't give a fuck about titles. It’s my people I care about, the responsibility to command them well, not like some of—"

He doesn't allow himself to finish and insult his fellow officers, instead pressing his lips into a tight, furious line and shifting back in his chair, restoring the healthy amount of space between the two of them.

Slackjaw gapes, too taken aback to speak.

Curnow isn't the kind of a watchman that Sally taught him to despise. He's tainted by the Watch, sure, he shares their mannerisms and superiority complex, he talks like one of them, but he's not yet warped beyond recognition, not completely rotten. He still has a spine, honour, morals.

Geoff Curnow must be one strong bastard, if he managed to keep this much integrity.

"My apologies,” Slackjaw says solemnly. "I s'pose we both misjudged one another."

Curnow only cracks a small, sour smile in response.

Slackjaw allows the silence to stretch for a while, focusing on the cheese plate, giving Curnow time to cool off. He studies the assortment and eventually decides on soft, sticky cheese that melts in his mouth. He can’t recall the name of it.

It’s time to brush up his knowledge on the topic, he thinks, licking his fingers.

Curnow swallows thickly and Slackjaw’s pulse quickens at the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing, his blue eyes gleaming with a primal hunger.

"Whatcha do when you’re not mothering your watchmen, then?” Slackjaw asks, slipping back into taunting, just so he doesn’t have time to think about this tension between them. "Work in soup kitchens? Crochet? Visit brothels? Or, _bathhouses_ as nobles like to call 'em?"

Curnow’s eyes dim as he lets out a mirthless, painful chuckle, and raises a hand to order two more drinks. He’s with Slackjaw, so the barmaid brings them right away, even though some patrons spit curses in her direction. Slackjaw stares them down, his fingers sliding along the sharp edge of his cleaver. The men at the bar shut up immediately, burying their noses deep in their empty beer mugs.

"Thanks, Slackjaw," the barmaid says, standing the drinks on their cluttered table. "This round’s on the house."

"No, it's on me," Curnow says, pushing a pouch into her hand. "I'm sorry for causing trouble."

The barmaid smiles at him in a way that's undeniably flirty, but Curnow doesn't seem to notice at all. She leaves their table with a soft sigh that holds no disappointment. Slackjaw supposes that years of work at The Drunken Whaler got her used to men paying her no mind.

Curnow downs his drink in one go as soon as the barmaid is back behind the counter. "You own every damn brothel on this side of Wrenhaven," he rasps, not meeting Slackjaw's gaze. "You know who visits where, when, and what for."

Slackjaw chuckles and takes a big sip of his whiskey. "What, you's afraid I'd blackmail ya?" he vexes.

Curnow scoffs, closing his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It’s crooked, as if it has been broken in the past. Slackjaw wants to ask about it. He doesn’t.

"No. What I’m trying to say is that you'd have no blackmail, even if you wanted to, because there’s nothing for me in places like that, Slackjaw," Curnow says, finally looking into Slackjaw’s eyes. There’s a mixture of anger and pain on his face, and Slackjaw doesn’t like it one bit. "Let’s just say that if that joke I've seen about you was about me instead, it would be missing the first line."

He sounds broken and ashamed, like so many other watchmen or young overseers Slackjaw's met in his life. It never gets any less harrowing to hear.

"You ain’t the only man like this in this room," Slackjaw notes, straining to sound casual. "And it's this time of the year when people like us can do whatever the fuck we want and no one can say a thing."

"Yeah." Curnow huffs a laugh, nodding without conviction. “Yeah, right.”

"What do you want, Curnow?" Slackjaw asks, leaning forward, trying to meet Curnow’s gaze.

He genuinely wants to know. Not for blackmail, not for Sally. He wants to know so he can help, because for some reason he can't stand seeing the clever Captain Curnow like this.

Curnow only shakes his head, though, forcing a chuckle. "I should go,” he says, standing up, desperately avoiding eye contact. “I'm only making a fool of myself and keeping you from enjoying your evening. I'm sorry, Slackjaw. Try to forget about it, if you can. Happy Fugue."

There's a long moment of unbearable silence in which Curnow struggles with his coat fastenings, his fingers seemingly stiff and uncooperative. And then, out of nowhere, Slackjaw says,

"I live nearby, we could have another drink at my place."

Why does he offer that, and why in the Void does Curnow say yes, is a mystery that Slackjaw tries and fails to solve as they leave the bar and walk the dirty, cold streets of Old Waterfront in silence that rings in his ears. Curnow is pale as a ghost, his eyes wide open, terrified. Slackjaw wants to reassure him, but he cannot find the words, his mind hazy, panicked.

So yeah, he ended up having fun talking to Curnow. He found him attractive. And he felt sorry for him, too. All perfectly good reasons to bring a man home with him. If only this man wasn’t Geoff fucking Curnow from the City Watch, a dog on the royal leash, someone who’s been after Slackjaw’s gang for years.

He could tell himself that it’s to help Sally, that he’s trying to get the information he needs by any means possible, but that would be a lie.

And Slackjaw may be a lot of things, but he’s not a liar.

“Here,” he says as they stop by a narrow townhouse in the grey zone that’s no longer Old Waterfront but not yet the Estate District. “Top floor.”

Curnow squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath before entering the staircase, his stride measured, stiff, like a wind-up toy soldier. Slackjaw follows in silence, observing Curnow’s ears turning red, and thinking that somewhere out there, the Outsider must be having one heck of a laugh.

They reach the door and Curnow steps aside, allowing Slackjaw to push past him. Their sleeves brush every time one of them moves in the narrow stairway, their breaths mingle into one cloud of vapour in the cold air.

Curnow cracks a pale, forced smile, when Slackjaw opens the door and bows in an invitation. He spends a long while wiping his shoes on the doormat, as if building up the courage to walk in, and when he finally does, it’s with bated breath and closed eyes, as if he’s pushing himself off a ledge.

Slackjaw looks at him, pale and strangely plain-looking against the extravagant tapestry of the hallway, and that’s when it hits him at last — he’s invited a watchman to his private apartment. He let _Geoff Curnow_ into a place where he keeps secrets not even Sally knows about.

He’s lost his mind.

He locks the door behind them, suppressing the urge to laugh, trying to rein in his panic, focus on menial tasks — he kneels down to unlace his boots, hangs his coat and hat, looks in the mirror, brushing back his hair, smoothing down his mustache, curled at the ends for the occasion.

Curnow watches him — hardly breathing, coat on, arms dangling loosely along his sides, waiting. When Slackjaw faces him, he finds pain at the bottom of Curnow’s eyes, as well as hunger that makes him shake his head in the question he doesn’t dare to ask out loud again.

_What do you want, Curnow?_

This time Curnow answers — with an oddly unguarded expression, his voice a hoarse whisper,

"Kiss me, Slackjaw."

Slackjaw does, his anxiety dissolving into a shiver that runs up his spine, a heat that pools in his stomach. His lips brush against Curnow's and it's gentle, tentative; it's both too much and not enough. Too much — because it's Geoff fucking Curnow, the Captain of the City Watch, his nemesis. Not enough — because Curnow's lips part and Slackjaw yearns to take this invitation, to pull Curnow closer, kiss him in earnest.

He steps back before he gives in to the temptation, breathing heavier than he ought to after something so innocent and brief.

Curnow's eyes are wide, pupils blown out, chest heaving. He seems terrified, like a cornered animal, and Slackjaw instinctively rounds his shoulders and back, looking down. The last thing he wants is for Curnow to feel threatened. It’s a strange enough situation as it is, neither of them needs any more pressure.

For Slackjaw, it’s simpler, perhaps. He treats the City Watch as just another gang. Laying with a watchman would be just like fucking a Hatter or an Eel — something he wouldn't do normally, but might indulge in during Fugue, when they all are (or at least should be) stripped from their affiliations.

For Curnow, it's a lot more complicated, Slackjaw sees it in his pinched face and darkening eyes. There’s the contempt Curnow has for Slackjaw — a criminal — but most importantly, the contempt he has for himself — beaten into him by years in the Watch, so close to the Abbey. Curnow is ashamed of his tastes and horrified to reveal them to an enemy.

Slackjaw knows too many people like this — forced to hide their preferences, indulging during the Fugue, only to flog themselves over it for the year to come.

It's sickening to see someone as strong and proud as Curnow so broken, repulsed by his own nature, afraid of his desires. It makes Slackjaw hate the Abbey even more, that bunch of hypocritical, cruel perverts hiding behind their golden masks, their Strictures and phoney piousness.

Curnow’s sigh sounds almost like a sob when he finally steps closer to Slackjaw, his breath shaky, hands unsteady as they clutch the front of Slackjaw's shirt, crumpling the silk. It will cost a fortune to salvage it. It doesn’t matter.

It’s nothing like their first kiss — it's hard and filthy, and utterly desperate. It shatters something inside Slackjaw, and he swears to himself that he'll make this a night to remember for Curnow, a night of tender lovemaking rather than rough shagging he seems to be used to.

So he pries Curnow's fingers away from his ruined shirt and takes control. Curnow lets him, sighing into his mouth, shifting closer until they’re chest to chest, Slackjaw’s arm around Curnow’s waist, hand cradling the back of his head.

He could spend all night like this — just kissing Curnow, listening to the helpless little mewls escaping his throat, looking into his hazy, heavy-lidded eyes, tasting the whiskey on his tongue and salt on his neck. But Curnow’s trembling fingers slide into Slackjaw’s hair, his hips press into Slackjaw’s thigh, he kisses back with hunger and desperation of a man who spent long thirteen months waiting for release, and how could Slackjaw deny him that any longer?

He peels Curnow out of his clothes, layer by layer, steering him gently towards the bedroom, his hands and mouth roaming over every inch of newly exposed skin, learning the topography of Curnow’s body, discovering all of its little secrets.

Curnow comes twice — once in Slackjaw’s mouth, once on his fingers — before Slackjaw buries himself into the tight heat of his ass and begins his search for the perfect angle that has Curnow whisper Slackjaw’s name in a raw, ruined voice, his head lolling, fingers digging deep into Slackjaw’s shoulders, holding on for dear life.

There’s a sudden realisation that this right then and there is the most profound sexual encounter Slackjaw’s ever had, a moment he’ll remember for years and years to come, followed by a conviction that it’s the same for Curnow, that they’re both going through the most intimate, vulnerable experience of their lives, sharing a breath with an enemy.

It’s thrilling. Terrifying. It’s wrong, but so, so right and Slackjaw feels light-headed, as if he’s had two bottles of whisky, not two drinks.

They finish just minutes apart, Curnow thrusting into Slackjaw’s fist and biting into his neck hard enough to leave a deep bruise. Slackjaw doesn’t mind, it’s only fair, considering how many marks he’s left over Curnow’s pale collarbones and hips.

They’re both deliciously spent and sleepy. Slackjaw rests his head on Curnow’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. Curnow runs his fingers through Slackjaw’s sweaty hair, slower and slower, until he stops, his fingertips still buried in Slackjaw’s messy locks as they both drift into sleep.

⬩

He wakes up to the sound of running water and an empty bed. The bathroom door is closed, Curnow’s clothes hung neatly over a chair at the desk. Slackjaw yawns, rolling onto his back. The hickey on his neck stings. He presses his fingertips against it as he glances at the table clock.

It’s only been a few hours. There’s a whole day and night of Fugue left. He could still find himself another man to spend the rest of the holiday with.

Nothing will match the sheer emotional impact of watching Curnow drop his guard and come undone under his touch, though. There’s no point in trying.

The bathroom door creaks open and Curnow walks into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, hanging low enough to reveal a handful of bruises, already turning purple. In some twisted way, Slackjaw’s glad to have left a mark to remember him by.

“Good morning,” Curnow mumbles, pale pink flushing over his cheekbones.

“Mornin’,” Slackjaw replies, looking away to allow him some privacy.

Curnow gets dressed with haste, his fingers once again stumbling on the fastenings of his civilian clothes, as if they’re not used to them. Perhaps they aren’t; truth be told, Slackjaw can’t recall ever seeing Curnow out of his Watch Officer uniform, the royal blues indicating who owns him.

Curnow deserves better than to be a dog on a leash. He’s smarter, stronger, more steadfast than any watchman Slackjaw knows. Given true leadership, he could build something great, worthwhile. Too bad he’s too brainwashed to realise that.

Curnow closes the last button of his coat and pulls on it, eyes glued to the floor as he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, scratching at his hand. “Right,” he says, the pink flush over his cheeks deepening and spreading towards his ears and neck. “So… Yeah.”

He shrugs and lunges towards the door, but Slackjaw’s ready to catch him before he flees. Curnow stills, fixing his gaze on Slackjaw’s rough fingers over his wrist. He seems out of breath when he finally looks up and shakes his head in a silent question, or perhaps a plea.

“Stay,” Slackjaw blurts. “Till the bells toll.”

Curnow swallows hard, shaking his hand free from Slackjaw’s grasp. “Alright,” he breathes, so quietly it’s barely audible. His fingers tremble when he reaches up to unbutton his coat. He cracks an awkward, self-conscious smile. “I suppose you’ll have to feed me at some point,” he jokes half-heartedly as he shrugs the coat off. “And you could use a bath, before—.”

He waves a hand in a jerky gesture and immediately moves it up to scratch at the bridge of his nose.

Slackjaw grins, rolling out of bed, pulling the sheets with him, as to not fluster Curnow any further.

“Duly noted, Captain,” he says, his voice low and raspy, promising everything Curnow didn’t dare to say out loud and more. He hopes it will be enough to keep him from running away while Slackjaw’s in the bathroom.

He washes himself quickly and throws on a bathrobe, another piece of expensive silk, this time in a floral motif that has Curnow smiling reflexively.

“You sure do like patterns,” he notes. He's still tense and jittery, perched at the very edge of the bed, but there’s a teasing note to his voice, something that Slackjaw is glad too hear. He likes Curnow better like this — sharp, witty, ready to bite back.

He shrugs nonchalantly, allowing the top of the robe to slide open. “Is that bad?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Not at all,” Curnow says, his eyes roaming over Slackjaw’s exposed chest.

“You seem hungry, Captain,” Slackjaw notes, grinning.

Curnow looks up, his eyes ablaze. “Starving."

It takes all of Slackjaw's self-control to not pin him to the mattress right then and there. Instead he turns to the kitchen and asks over his shoulder,

"So how about eggs for breakfast?"

Curnow somehow manages to look both murderous and disappointed, it's a strange, endearing combination that makes Slackjaw chuckle as he leaves the room.

Curnow takes a sweet moment before getting up with an offended huff and following Slackjaw to the kitchen that he eyes curiously.

Slackjaw’s apartment is an odd place, that’s true. It’s lavish, yet functional; it’s a museum of his life, a safety vault, a bunker, and a place to live, all in one. It’s his life insurance in case things go south, a safe haven to weather all storms.

He rarely uses it. Most of the year, he sleeps at the distillery, on a cot tucked into the corner of his office. It’s Lucretia — his mother’s old friend, a retired whore — who keeps this place clean for him, dusts the furniture, airs the place, and makes sure that everything of importance is right where it ought to be. She’s the only one Slackjaw trusts with his secrets and he pays her well for the work she does here as well as for picking up imported goods for him every once in a while.

Slackjaw’s a simple man, he could very well live off canned whale and local produce, but he finds pleasure in spoiling his occasional lovers and guests, so he makes sure to always have his pantry full of foreign goods during the Fugue.

He watches in awe how Curnow’s eyes round at the display of food Slackjaw lays on the table — a pot of freshly brewed Tyvian tea, an assortment of cheeses from all over the Empire, figs and grapes to go with them, Tyvian smoked sausage, spicy and fragrant with herbs, Morley salted butter, fresh eggs and bread, and Serkonan tomatoes, deliciously ripe, even though it’s winter.

“They cost a fortune, even in season,” Curnow says, when Slackjaw begins to slice them. They’re juicy and bright red on the inside, and more fragrant than Slackjaw’s ever had them.

“They ain’t cheap,” he admits, shrugging as he offers Curnow a slice of a tomato on the tip of the knife.

Curnow pops it in his mouth with a soft little moan of pleasure and then licks his fingers in a way that’s not meant to be sensual, but that stirs something within Slackjaw nonetheless. “I haven’t had any in years,” Curnow says. “Not since I’ve last been to Serkonos.”

“You’re welcome, then, Captain.” Slackjaw winks, turning to the stove, before he does something stupid like kissing Curnow over the kitchen table. “How d’you like your eggs?” he asks, putting the skillet over fire.

“Sunny side up," Curnow replies, nicking another slice of a tomato from the cutting board. "Or scrambled, whichever you prefer.”

Slackjaw fries them sunny side up, three for each of them. Curnow dips a piece of bread in the yolk as soon as they land on his plate and shoots Slackjaw an indignant look, when he laughs at it.

They chat about sweet little nothings, food and literature, the prices going up and quality of life going down. It's surprising how well they get along, how easily their conversation flows as long as they steer clear from topics like law and crime.

It’s only when they’re back in the bedroom, Slackjaw sprawled over the duvet, with the robe barely covering his vitals, and Curnow curled in the armchair, when their discussion turns from literature through philosophy, to morals and Curnow jumps back on his high horse.

"You're just another gang, you and your Watch," Slackjaw tells him in response to the haughty slogans. "The whole difference is that your boss has his own boss, and that boss answers to yet another."

Curnow’s gaze hardens to cold steel. "We're nothing alike," he drawls. "I’m the law enforcement, you're the lawbreaker."

Slackjaw hoped they'd spend the rest of the Fugue in bed, making love to each other, but it seems like they’re just going to fight instead. Shame.

"’Ight,” he snorts. “And that somehow makes you better?"

"Yes," Curnow says with conviction that would be admirable, if only it wasn’t so misguided. "We're not running around killing or robbing anyone we don't like."

Slackjaw rolls onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to take a better look at Curnow. He’s never met a man so detached, so foolishly idealistic and naive. Even if Curnow himself stayed away from back alley brawls, he must at least be aware of the heinous crimes his fellow officers or the low rank watchmen commit.

"Wanna hear somethin' funny?" Slackjaw says, looking Curnow in the eye. There’s no trace of humour in his voice anymore, none of the tenderness he’s grown overnight. "I lost twelve people to your Watch last year. All of them shot in the back, without a warning, for no reason other than the fact they were mine. Now, do you know how many people I lost to the other gangs?"

He holds a pause, watching Curnow shake his head inquiringly.

"One," Slackjaw says slowly, letting it sink in. "One man. Jus’ ‘cause he blew his cover while spying on the Hatters."

Curnow doesn't respond, only frowns deeply, nipping on his nails.

"See, that's the thing 'bout us in the street gangs,” Slackjaw says. “We came from nothin', we know that life’s the most precious thing we own. We ain't killing each other for no reason."

"Wasn't your gang in a war with the Hatters?" Curnow asks waspishly, trying to shift the blame on Slackjaw and his boys. What a classic watchman tactic.

Slackjaw laughs, ruffling his hair, still damp from the bath. "Wouldn't you fight back, if, say, the Overseers declared a war against ya? If they showed up at your doorstep, killing your people, would you just watch it happen?"

"They didn't show up at _your_ doorstep, though," Curnow says, smirking ever so smugly, that precious fool. "You took the distillery from the Hatters."

Slackjaw huffs a derisive laugh. "Ah yeah, so the story goes," he admits, waving a hand in the air. "The thing 'bout stories, though, is that they leave out the boring details. You know, all them business transactions, cessions and shit."

Curnow's eyes grow round, his anger instantly forgotten. "You _bought_ it?" he asks.

The bewilderment in his voice makes Slackjaw smile, despite himself.

"Yeah,” he says. “And here comes the real shocker," he adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "I even pay my fuckin’ taxes. Unlike them nobles."

"Why would the Geezer sell you his distillery?" Curnow asks, ignoring the last part. "And why would the Hatters start a war with you right after? That makes no sense."

"Trimble, to both questions," Slackjaw explains, shrugging. "That's all I'm gonna say."

Curnow winces, but doesn't oppose, aware that he’s heard more than he deserved to hear. He's surely gonna take a deeper look into this story once he leaves Slackjaw’s apartment. Pretty please, Slackjaw has nothing to hide. Not when it comes to the distillery, at least.

"That brings us back to my main point," Slackjaw says, clicking his tongue. "Trimble ain't one of us, he ain't know the rules, so he does stupid shit like startin' wars. He doesn't care 'bout the human lives, he doesn't care 'bout your precious laws. And neither do your people."

Curnow bristles at that and whatever connection they managed to restore, shatters right in this moment. "We're the law enforcement," Curnow spits. "We _do_ care about the law."

"Oh, do you, now?" Slackjaw snorts, baring his teeth, leaning towards Curnow. "I read the code, you know. And, funny, it ain't say shit about watchmen bein' allowed to kill people without warning an' trial. It ain't say shit about them bein' allowed to rape, either."

It’s perversely satisfying to see Curnow swallow hard, his face blanched, eyes wide and horrified. He looks like this is the first time he's heard the last accusation and he has no retort for it, no excuse.

Slackjaw sneers. He’s found the soft spot and he’ll dig his claws into it, as deep as they go.

"Ah yes, Captain,” he hisses. “You don't hang out near brothels, so you might not have heard, but they do that a lot, those men of yours, those spotless law enforcers."

Curnow glues his eyes to the carpet, the muscles of his jaw twitching steadily. By his books, common robbery can be called a seizure of goods, murder might be self-defense, but there’s no pretty alternative name for rape. Rape’s just rape. It always has been. Always will be.

"Why would I believe you?" he asks, weakly, and all of his foolish confidence and conviction fade away. "You're a criminal, a wanted man, why would I believe _you_ over—," he trails off and laughs, sliding his hands into his hair and curling his fists. "This is so wrong," he mumbles, shaking his head. "This is all so wrong."

"What?" Slackjaw asks, watching Curnow's chest heaving in shallow breaths. He should still be angry, still, but he can’t, not when Curnow looks so fragile and crushed, not when he sounds as if he’s just lost all of the faith in the rightness of his doing.

"This!" Curnow throws up his hands. "Me, here. Me, sleeping with a crime lord. _You_ being so—." His hands drop as he looks into Slackjaw's face and says in a soft, broken whisper, "I shouldn't trust you. I shouldn't believe you. But I do, even though you're a wanted criminal."

Slackjaw winces, running a hand through his hair. "Look. Slackjaw ain’t innocent. There are things I’ve done that I’d take back if I only could. But those things from the poster?" He snorts, shaking his head. "They were no crimes."

Curnow sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “Don’t lie to me, Slackjaw,” he says.

Something about this plea is more intimate than the night they shared, it makes Slackjaw shudder and lean forward, taking Curnow’s hands in his.

“I ain’t lyin’,” he says. “I did those things, yeah. But they were no crimes.”

Curnow scoffs softly. He sounds weary, tired to the bone and Slackjaw instinctively tightens his grip on Curnow’s fingers, cold and slender.

“Larceny,” Curnow says, looking into Slackjaw’s eyes. “Assault. Do I need to go on? These are crimes, Slackjaw.”

“I killed people,” Slackjaw says, holding Curnow’s gaze. “But what they put on that stupid poster is pissin’ in public. They care more about a statue of some Overseer than the common folk dyin’. It’s only ever a crime if you do somethin’ against them.”

He shouldn’t feel the need to justify himself. And yet, here he is — a gang boss pouring his heart out in hopes he can get a watchman to understand. What an absurd situation.

“It’s only larceny, ‘cause it was a noble I stole from,” he says, his words bitter, heavy as they roll off his tongue. “It’s assault, ‘cause it was a watchman’s ass I kicked, when I saw him tryin’ to hurt a whore. I pay my whores enough so they can feed their families and I don’t let no one hurt them, and they call it unlawful management. Just ‘cause poor Pendletons can’t beat the livin’ shit out of the girls anymore.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Curnow lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh, but not really a sob, shaking his hands free from Slackjaw’s grasp, curling them into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. He sits still for a while longer, his face contorted in pure anguish. When he raises to his feet, it’s slow, as if he’s emerging from water.

“They are going to raid Black Sally’s hideout,” he says, slowly, as if forcing the words out. “Some time next week, I don’t know the exact date.”

Slackjaw’s heart stills momentarily, something acrid comes up his throat. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks, the words dying on his lips.

Curnow smiles and it’s like a punch to Slackjaw’s gut, but still not as painful as the words that follow, “Wasn’t this why you brought me here?”

Slackjaw shakes his head, gritting his teeth, closing his fists on the duvet. “No,” he says.

Curnow chuckles ever so softly and somehow it makes Slackjaw jump up to his feet, take Curnow’s face in his hands, force him to meet his gaze.

“I swear,” he says. “That’s why I bought you that drink at the bar, yeah, but it’s not—.” 

He laughs, helplessly, letting his head fall forward, pressing his forehead against Curnow’s. And Curnow should probably curse him and leave, but he just stands there with his eyes closed, his fingers playing with the hem of Slackjaw’s robe.

“None of my people know of this place,” Slackjaw says quietly, half-hoping that the true meaning of these words will be lost in the whisper. It isn’t.

Curnow’s eyes snap open as he takes half a step back, glancing around the room, as if he’s seeing it for the first time now. He is, in a sense. Only now does he notice some of the security mechanisms, the hidden compartments, the trophies. Then he looks into Slackjaw’s face, his brows pinched in a deep frown. “Why?” he asks.

And Slackjaw wishes he had an answer to that, but he really doesn’t, he can only shake his head and laugh. “Why did you tell me about the raid on Sally?”

Curnow looks away, biting down on his lip. “She should pay for her crimes,” he says adamantly. “But not like this. She deserves an honest trial, not—.” He swallows thickly, his fingers creeping up Slackjaw’s sleeve. “He wants her dead,” Curnow whispers, still not meeting Slackjaw’s gaze. “And not for her crimes. He wants her dead just because she refused to sleep with him. And that’s— that’s just not right. And maybe you could—”

“Who?” Slackjaw asks.

Curnow steps closer, tugging on Slackjaw’s sleeve. “Just promise me you won’t kill him,” he pleads. “Whatever you do, just, please, don’t—”

“Who?” Slackjaw cuts in, pressing a thumb under Curnow’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Give me a name and I swear, I’ll let him live.”

He feels the muscles of Curnow’s throat move as he swallows. “Jules Roebin,” he says eventually. “Slackjaw—”

“Shh,” Slackjaw says, pressing two fingers against his mouth. “Don’t you worry, Captain, Slackjaw’s a man of his word.”

Curnow nods and sighs, his lips parting, letting Slackjaw’s fingers in, and the sight of it sets his loins on fire, makes him pull Curnow into a heated kiss, press against him, hard enough to let him feel what the flimsy silk robe barely concealed.

And then they’re back in bed, at the very last, kissing until they’re out of breath, Slackjaw’s robe open wide and sliding off his shoulders, Curnow hastily stripping off his civilian clothes, discarding them on the floor, until he’s naked in Slackjaw’s lap, squirming, wanting. He’s not a particularly skilled lover, but it doesn’t matter, because what he lacks in experience, he more than makes up for with his enthusiasm, the sheer _need_ radiating from him.

This time there’s no more shame, no more inhibitions or affiliations. They’re no longer a watchman and a crime lord, they’re just two lonely men yearning for affection, making frantic love as the Fugue slips through their fingers.

They don’t speak of morals or politics again, instead sticking to light, neutral topics when they eat strawberries in the bath together or drink sparkling Tyvian wine in bed. Curnow tells him of his Serkonan grandfather and the prejudice he’s faced because of his southern heritage. Slackjaw tells him of growing up in a brothel and the origin story of his moniker.

Night falls upon them without a warning, just as Curnow finishes cooking a lamb stew and from then on they’re both listening for the echo of Abbey’s bells in every clang of a fork against a plate, every thud of the bed frame against a wall, every laugh, every helpless moan, every rustle of sheets, every muffled whisper.

They watch the morning creep up, nestled into each other, fingers intertwined. The grey sky of Dunwall grows lighter with each passing minute, and they both look into it, praying silently to make the Fugue last just a little longer this year. But if Everyman is really there, he doesn’t listen. Slackjaw can’t say he’s surprised.

Curnow slips out of the bed, out of Slackjaw’s embrace, the second the bells toll. He puts on his clothes and this time he’s not flustered, he doesn’t fumble, he moves with practiced precision of a soldier on duty. Slackjaw swallows back bile as he stands up to find some clean clothes for himself.

“You won’t find me here outside the Fugue,” he says, closing his pants, as he follows Curnow into the hallway, his voice a hoarse growl.

Curnow looks up from the shoes he’s tying, his eyes clear, calculating. “Is this a warning against trying to raid this place, or an invitation for the next Fugue?” he asks, raising a brow and for a moment he’s not an officer on duty, he’s just Geoff Curnow, the man Slackjaw has spent the last two nights with.

“Maybe it’s both,” he says, smirking.

Curnow snorts, standing up. He reaches for the door handle, but stops short, turning back to Slackjaw, who shakes his head in a silent question. Curnow doesn’t reply, instead pulling him into one last searing kiss. “See you around, Slackjaw,” he says, once their lips part.

He leaves before Slackjaw has a chance to say anything back. Perhaps it’s for the best.

**ii.**

“Craxton!” Slackjaw roars as soon as he steps into the distillery.

“Yes, boss?”

Craxton’s at his side within seconds, alert and ready to do whatever he’s told. Slackjaw likes that about him, it makes his life decidedly easier.

“Send one of the boys to Black Sally,” he orders. “Tell her to come over. Say it’s urgent.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Craxton says. He doesn’t ask any questions, he trusts Slackjaw’s judgement and decisions, even if he doesn’t necessarily understand them most of the time. “Anythin’ else?”

“Tell Crowley I need to see him.”

“Urgent?”

“Very.”

Craxton nods solemnly and leaves. Slackjaw takes a moment to check on the stills, peek into the accounts, make sure his boys all made it back after the Fugue. Then he holes himself up in his office.

Crowley doesn’t make him wait long. His shirt has lipstick stains around the collar and he’s visibly hungover, but he’s ready for action, hand resting on his gun holster, eyes clear and alert. Slackjaw gestures at him to calm down.

“I need information,” he says. “Name’s Jules Roebin. Officer in the City Watch. He’s plannin’ a raid on Sally. Gimme everything you can find on him and do it quick, we ain’t got much time.”

“Gotcha,” Crowley rasps in response and disappears, faster and more quietly than anyone could expect, judging by his stature.

He’s back in just an hour with a packet full of documents, the contents of which he briefly summarises for Slackjaw. It’s a lot of valuable information, from Roebin’s early life as well as his career in the Watch, but nothing bad enough to blackmail him. Slackjaw will have to figure out a different strategy to save Sally without breaking the promise he made to Curnow.

“When is he planning to attack?” he asks, cracking his knuckles one by one.

“Wednesday,” Crowley says. “Evening, when the slaughterhouse workers finish their shift. His people won’t be wearin’ no uniforms, he wants ‘em to blend with the workers.”

Slackjaw bares his teeth. “Coward,” he spits.

“We have time, we could send one of our boys to—” Crowley begins, but trails off when Slackjaw shakes his head. “Or we could hire the Knife,” he suggests.

Slackjaw wags his finger in the air. “We ain’t killin’ nobody this time,” he says. “We don’t want no trouble with the Watch.”

Crowley sucks his teeth, nodding. His eyes are narrowed, brows pinched and Slackjaw can almost see the cogs in his head turning. He waits. Crowley is a smart one, he’ll come up with something good eventually.

“That bastard won’t give up until he kills Sally,” Crowley says, confirming Curnow’s words. “So either we kill him, or we let him kill Sally. No, hear me out,” he says, when he sees Slackjaw sneer and stir in his chair. “He’s a damn coward, we know that. He ain’t gonna go at her with a sword, she’d slice him like a piece of blood sausage.”

Slackjaw chuckles lowly to himself. Crowley smirks, and then continues,

“He’s gonna shoot her. From a safe distance, good fifteen paces, I’d say. There will be loads of people around, so he ain’t gonna go for the head, too much mess. He ain’t gonna linger, either, he’ll run for it. He won’t be checkin’ if she’s really dead.”

Slackjaw bites down on his thumb, smiling. “So you suggest we fake her death?”

Crowley shrugs, throwing up his hands. “If she agrees on that.”

“I’ll convince her,” Slackjaw says. “You figure out how to make her survive the shootin’.”

“Don’t worry, boss. I know just the guy for the armour,” Crowley assures, grinning.

⬩

Convincing Sally is the hardest part.

Funnily enough, it’s not the fact that she’ll need to let Roebin shoot her that bothers her. Once she hears that the armour will be made by Piero Joplin, she’s sold on the idea, sure that she’ll survive the shooting.

What has her boiling is the idea of giving up her territory and men, of going into hiding. It’s hardly surprising, really. Sally is a warrior, letting Roebin believe he’s won will be a blow to her pride. But she doesn’t have much of a choice. Even if Slackjaw were to break the promise he’s made to Curnow, killing Roebin wouldn’t solve shit. If anything, it would just turn the entire Watch against them.

“You could go back to Morley for some time,” he says. “You don’t even need to lay low, no one will believe the rumours, anyway.”

“And what am I gonna do there, Slackjaw?” Sally scoffs. “Herd sheep? Or try to carve a name for myself on the streets of Fraeport?”

He gives her a stern look, as if he was the parent figure in her life and not the other way around. “You’ve got enough money to live there comfortably for a year or two, Sal,” he says. “And I’ll get you back as soon as the dust settles, I promise.”

She winces, taking a long sip of her King’s Brandy. Slackjaw has never understood her fondness for it, he finds it revolting. Unprocessed whale oil probably tastes better than this.

“I s’pose I’ve no choice, eh?” Sally mutters after a moment, putting her glass down with an emphatic thud. “Alright. Let’s do it, lad,” she says, holding out her hand and smiling, just like she used to, with hunger and joy. “It’s adventure time for old Sally.”

Slackjaw shakes her hand, smiling back. “I’m gonna miss you, Sal,” he says, his traitorous voice trembling at the last syllables.

She pulls him into a tight hug over the desk. It sets the muscles of his back on fire, but he doesn’t mind it one bit. He really will miss her like hell. For years she’s been the only one who really believed in him, who always had his back, who listened and comforted him when he needed it most. Dunwall is gonna be awfully quiet without her.

“I’ll be back, when you need me, lad,” she promises, stroking his hair, just like his mother used to when he was a boy. “I’ll bring you souvenirs,” she adds, winking, as she lets him go, her eyes a little wet, which somehow makes them even greener.

Slackjaw laughs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “As long as it’s not this vile drink,” he says, pointing to the bottle on the table.

⬩

They watch the action from a distance — Slackjaw, Crowley, and Baxter, their little medic, ready to patch up Sally, if anything goes wrong.

Slackjaw’s biting his nails, his right hand clutching his gun. He doesn’t have the same faith in natural philosophers that Sally and Crowley do. He doesn’t trust that Joplin fellow and his armour, and he didn’t have enough time to test it properly, see how much it can yield, where are its weak points. He’ll never forgive himself if Sally gets hurt, or—

He wonders if Roebin will even show up or it’s just an elaborate trap for him and his Bottle Street Boys. He wants to trust Curnow, but does he really have any reason to? What if he set himself up, blinded by a brief moment of tenderness they shared?

But that’s not the case. Curnow didn’t lie to him. Everything happens just as Crowley said it would — the workers spill out of the slaughterhouses and Roebin slips into the crowd, aiming from the hip, gun pointed into Sally’s back. He’s dressed like a commoner but doesn’t pass as one, he looks too well-fed and well-rested, a garish contrast to the tired workers, many of which hadn’t had a hot meal in days.

Slackjaw lifts his pistol, lays a careful finger on the trigger. Curnow didn’t betray him and Slackjaw really doesn’t want to betray him either, but he will, if he has to. He won’t let that piece of high-bred garbage hurt Sally.

But Roebin turns out to be just as cowardly as Crowley suspected. He fires one shot into Sally’s back and then runs, throwing his gun into the river, disappearing into the narrow, poorly-lit streets. Someone screams, there’s a few more shots, Finnegan, Sally’s second in command, drops to the ground, clutching at his stomach, a handful of watchmen follow in their officer’s footsteps, fleeing as fast as they can. The crowd whispers and gasps, undulates like some water plants, like something weird growing at the very bottom of Wrenhaven.

Slackjaw counts from ten down, waiting for the watchmen to get far enough, before he stands up, shoving his gun back into the holster and running to Sally. The crowd disperses at the sight of him, they know his face from the posters, they realise now that it’s a gang matter and want nothing to do with it. Slackjaw pays them no mind, dropping to his knees, staring desperately into Sally’s face. There’s no blood on the ground, but he’s still not sure, still horrified that _maybe_ —

“I’m alright, lad,” Sally whispers, her lips barely moving.

There’s no pretending in the broken sob he lets out, pressing his forehead against hers, shielding her from the bystanders with his body so that he can crack a vial of whale blood open and pour it over her clothes and his hands. It’s not anatomically correct, that’s not how anyone would bleed from a gunshot to their back, but it doesn’t matter, those people won’t realise that.

Sally’s lips twitch and he knows she wants to calm him down, pet his hair, but they both have a play to finish, so she tries to stay as still as she possibly can when he takes her in his arms, shocked by how very small she feels. He doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze as he carries her through the quiet streets, past Slaughterhouse Row and Clavering Boulevard, all the way to his distillery, Crowley at his side, Baxter trailing behind them, carrying Finnegan. No one tries to stop them, they just press their backs against the walls and whisper — _that’s Black Sally, Black Sally’s dead!_

When the gate of the distillery closes behind them, Sally immediately slips out of his arms, tearing her coat open and shrugging it off. What she wears underneath looks like a vest.

“Silk and riverkrust shells, apparently,” she says. “I think the bullet is stuck in the back.”

It is, indeed. Slackjaw yanks it out of the garment and traces the tear left by it with his fingers. The vest is just layers upon layers of fabric, how in the Void did it stop a gunshot?

“So?” Sally says, picking the bullet from his hand and stuffing it into her pocket. She’s always liked to collect memorabilia. “What’s the plan now?”

Slackjaw gestures at Crowley, Baxter and Finnegan to move on and shrugs. “The ship’s leaving early in the morning, everything’s settled with the captain. We’ll stage a funeral here, proper one. I’ll invite all the gang bosses and do some nice eulogy.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “My people will answer to you,” she says, growing serious. “Finn’s comin’ with me, though.”

“No way, you’re taking your man with you?” Slackjaw gasps exaggeratedly, pressing a hand to his chest. “I would’ve never expected that from you.”

Sally smiles briefly, but her eyes are serious as never before. “Now listen to me, Slackjaw,” she says, taking his face in her hands, small and very cold. “They’ll think that losing me has weakened you. They’ll come for you soon enough. Don’t answer with blunt force. Don’t become yet another butcher. You’re smarter than the rest of them. Don’t let them pull you down.”

Slackjaw swallows, reaching up to cover her hands with his. His throat feels constricted, his eyes sting, when she smiles at him with fierce pride.

“Show them what you’re made of,” she says, letting go off his face and instead pressing a fist against his chest. “Show them how wrong they all were when they underestimated you. Take all this Voidforsaken town owns you.”

He nods, closing his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I will,” he swears. “I sure will, Sal.”

She smiles at last, tears welling in her eyes when she pulls him down into a tight hug. “Outsider’s balls, I’m gonna miss you like hell, lad,” she says.

Slackjaw doesn’t answer, he doesn’t trust his voice anymore.

⬩

It’s pouring when Sally and Finnegan get on their boat to Morley at the crack of dawn. The raindrops splash against their faces and it’s almost impossible to see that Sally and Slackjaw are both crying.

He stands on the shore long after they’re gone, watching as the ship slowly fades into the fog.

Once he’s back at the distillery, he sinks behind his desk and begins to write — the invitations to the funeral and the eulogy he’ll have to do. He sends Baxter to find corpses they can burn as Sally and Finn, and Craxton to find Lucretia.

She’s always a strange sight in his dingy, cluttered office — all prim and proper, dressed up according to the latest fashion, delicate like a bird. He smiles at her, offering her a chair and a cup of tea from the Tyvian samovar she once bought for him.

“She’s not really dead, is she?” Lucretia asks, dropping a single cube of sugar into her tea and stirring slowly.

He shakes his head. “But we want everyone to believe that she is.”

Lucretia nods, taking a sip of her tea. She needs no explanation. She’s been the favourite of the late Emperor Euhorn, she’s well-versed in lies, hoaxes and impostures. “What do you need from me?” she asks.

“Nazareva’s novels, the leather-bound edition from 1817,” he says, dropping his gaze and rolling a cigarette between his fingers just so that he doesn’t have to see the smug smile on Lucretia’s face.

“You have a strange way of courting people,” she says, her nails clicking softly against the teacup.

“I’m not courting anyone,” Slackjaw barks, frowning. “It’s for an informant.”

She clicks her tongue. “Of course,” she says, her voice trembling with unshed laughter. “It’s a standard payment, after all. Antique books, probably referencing to some sweet little conversation you had.”

Slackjaw grinds his teeth, looking up with fury, but try as he might, he won’t intimidate her. This woman used to change his dirty nappies whenever his mother was busy. She probably still sees the scrawny, snivelling child in him.

“Who do I deliver this _payment_ to?” she asks, raising her brows.

Had it been anyone else, he’d answer without so much as batting an eye. But it’s Lucretia with her attentive gaze and a gently teasing grin, so he blushes, suddenly self-aware and awkward.

“Captain Geoff Curnow,” he says, closing his eyes. “And I beg of you, don’t— comment on it.”

To her credit, she doesn’t.

**iii.**

The rest of the year is quiet.

He stages a funeral for Sally, a big ceremony that all the bosses show up to, even the old Geezer, strapped into a wheelchair, breathing through a tube. Daud comes, too, though one glance into his face tells Slackjaw that he knows the truth. He makes no comment, though, and if anyone else has doubts, Slackjaw’s eulogy is convincing enough to disperse them.

For two weeks, Dunwall is drinking Slackjaw’s whisky, raising toasts to late Black Sally or Jules Roebin — the pompous ass, who writes a book, telling a story that has nothing to do with the truth. Slackjaw lets him spread his lies. The fewer people know what really happened, the better.

He loses five people this year, and only three of them to the Watch, who has been forbidden to shoot without warning. Slackjaw is pretty sure he knows the man behind this order.

No longer having to worry for the safety of his men, he can focus on growing his empire. He takes in Sally’s people as well as those of the Hatters that can’t stand working under Trimble. He makes agreements with nearby business owners and sells more whiskey than ever before. By the time winter comes, he controls the drug market on his side of Wrenhaven and brothels all the way up to the Draper’s Ward.

For the first time, he doesn’t need anyone’s protection to make Dunwall respect him. He makes it bend to his will without spilling any blood, with nothing but the power of his newfound reputation and some money.

Come Fugue, Curnow shows up at his doorstep with a bottle of Tyvian red and a box of Serkonan cigars and they’re both so starved for each other that they don’t even make it to the bedroom, Slackjaw takes him right in the hallway, against the front door, the wine and cigars dropped to the floor, Curnow’s muffled shouts echoing through the stairway.

This time they don’t argue, even when the conversation inevitably turns to crime and politics. The last thirteen months have stripped them both of their preconceived notions, shown their true colours. Curnow’s off his high horse, Slackjaw’s less wrongheaded and they talk without jumping to each other’s throat, calm and respectful, just two influential men trying to find a way to make their town a better place.

Slackjaw thanks Curnow for taming his watchmen, Curnow thanks him for keeping his promise and letting Roebin live. They discuss the steps that have to be taken to ensure that the prostitutes are protected from physical, mental and financial harm, how to keep the drug market relatively fair and safe, and how to fight the ever-present poverty.

They have sex in the interludes and it’s somehow even better than last year. They’re less angry and afraid of their desire, as if they both left their affiliations behind the door this time. Curnow’s relaxed and unabashed, even as he drops to his knees between Slackjaw’s legs or bends over the kitchen counter and it drives Slackjaw mad, that slight smirk on Curnow’s lips and the way he meets Slackjaw’s gaze, even when Slackjaw’s balls deep in him.

One thing that doesn’t change is that the Fugue is not nearly long enough, that they don’t have enough time to satiate their hunger, to learn each other by heart. But this time when they part ways in the cold, misty morning, they know they’ll meet again when the Abbey’s bells toll.

⬩

They settle into a routine of sorts after that. They spend the Fugues together, making love and sharing plans, and then the rest of the year they stay apart quietly implementing what they devised, changing Dunwall for the better, step by step, without anyone noticing.

In the meantime, Slackjaw brings Sally back from Morley and puts her in charge of training his people, a job far below her competences, but the best he can offer to her now that no one can know she’s alive. She doesn’t complain, in fact, she seems to have fun, teaching Slackjaw’s boys how to use a knife.

Curnow drills discipline into his watchmen and the casualties between them and Slackjaw’s boys drop to zero within two years. Slackjaw takes this time to change the rules in all of his brothels and when the whores from all over town start flocking to him in pursuit of fair wages and protection, other owners have no choice but to offer them the exact same conditions.

Once he’s done with that, he focuses on the drug market, ordering rigorous control of the substances, forbidding the dealers from selling to minors and when some don’t obey, he has them beaten until they’re a bloody mess, just to make an example. He allows most types of payment, from cash and valuables to standard barter, but he draws a line on sexual favours and bodily fluids. He has to send Crowley and Craxton to talk to a few offended pharmacists, who don’t like that last rule, but eventually, he comes on top.

Solving the problem of poverty is far more difficult. He hires as many people as he can afford, but it’s never enough, there are still hundreds, thousands of mudlarks and beggars, people with no job and no future. Curnow manages to get an audience with the Empress and convince her to establish several soup kitchens in the poorest parts of the town, but this, too, doesn’t change much. They keep trying, though, over and over again, because even if they can’t help every person in need, they can at least help some of them and that’s better than helping no one at all.

In the meantime, Slackjaw catches himself thinking of Curnow far, far too often. He doesn’t change Curnow’s pillowcase after Fugue, clinging to the faint hint of his scent that he left on the silk. He underlines passages in books that he thinks might appeal to Curnow. He eats Serkonan food, just because it tastes like Fugue to him. He gives up cigarettes for cigars, for the same reason. He jerks off exclusively to the memories of Curnow because nothing else gets him off these days.

Lucretia and Sally exchange knowing smirks whenever someone mentions Curnow’s name and Slackjaw startles, but he lives in sweet denial all the way till the year of the Rat Plague, until he can’t pretend anymore.

**iv.**

People leave the sinking ship that is Dunwall as soon as the Plague spreads from the poor neighbourhoods to Rudshore. They flee to Serkonos and Tyvia, in hopes that the hot southern sun or cold northern winds will kill the germs. Slackjaw considers taking a boat to Morley, he owns a house there, a quiet place away from the city, a great spot to wait out this madness. But Curnow wouldn’t go and Slackjaw can’t leave him behind, not when he has no certainty if they’ll ever see each other again.

So he stays, monitoring the situation, trying to figure out how to keep his people alive. He reaches out to the Spymaster’s people, but they refuse to talk to him. He tries to stay calm, even as he sees the rats multiplying by day, streets deserting, people coughing and weeping blood. He puts his connections to good use, securing medical supplies, getting his spies at the Academy to steal Sokolov’s formula.

He has no illusions — the crown won’t help them, they have to help themselves.

In the meantime, Curnow disappears and Jules Roebin takes over the City Watch. Slackjaw fears the worst, until Lucretia comes back from his apartment, bringing a small silver locket she found there. Inside there’s a beautifully engraved map of the Empire and a small piece of paper folded thrice. _For safekeeping_ it says in a neat, round handwriting.

He hangs it on his neck and never takes it off. He reaches to it when he thinks of Curnow, and when he thinks of Dunwall. He reaches to it whenever he looks at the river and hopes to see the royal skiff returning to the Tower. He reaches to it as a reminder that Curnow is alive and that he cares enough to make sure Slackjaw knows that. In a city dying of plague, it’s something that means the world. 

He puts the still in his office to a good use, brewing as much of Sokolov’s elixir as he can, hiding crates of it in strangest of places. Lucretia begins to question his sanity, but he doesn’t care. He knows that sooner or later things will get bad and no diplomatic travels can change that. The rest of the Empire will have no choice but to close the borders and then the prices will go up. He wants to stock up on the elixir while he can still afford it.

He’s right, of course.

Curnow and the Lord Protector come back to Dunwall and within days everything goes to the dogs. The Empress is killed, Corvo Attano detained for murder he surely didn’t commit, Serkonos, Morley and Tyvia all close their borders to Gristol, and Dunwall descends into chaos as Hiram Burrows takes over power. He leaves Roebin in charge of the Watch and within weeks the watchmen go back to their old habits, robbing, killing, raping.

The prices go through the roof and soon enough those who don’t die from plague, start dying from hunger.

Slackjaw begins to water down and sell some of his elixir. Burrows selfishly keeps everything Sokolov makes to himself and his cronies, and this opens a new market to those willing to take the opportunity.

Slackjaw picks his customers carefully, making sure they’ll be able to pay him up. There’s only so much charity he can afford.

Corvo Attano escapes Coldridge Prison, but Slackjaw has no time to admire this incredible feat, because in the meantime money loses its worth and he has to start looking for other currencies. He strikes a deal with Pratchett, exchanging the elixir for canned meat and jellied eels. He stops making whiskey, trading grain for bread and using the stills to produce rubbing alcohol when rumours spread that pharmacies are running out of it. He exchanges drugs for fruit and vegetables. He tries his best to keep his people alive, safe from both plague and hunger.

But they start dying anyway, killed mysteriously by an enemy he cannot identify. He orders Crowley to solve this puzzle and doubles, triples the watches. His sentries drop dead one by one, though, quietly, without anyone noticing and he doesn’t know what to do, for the first time in decades he feels completely lost and overpowered.

⬩

That’s when Craxton comes back from the Golden Cat with the news that makes Slackjaw’s blood freeze in his veins.

“There was a big fight between the Watch and the Overseers in Treaver’s Close,” he says, bouncing on his heels before Slackjaw. “Campbell invited Curnow to talk it over drinks tonight.”

Slackjaw feels himself pale, his hand instantly darting to the locket on his neck. Treaver’s Close is just a stone’s throw from the Cat. “Curnow wasn’t even there,” he rasps. “He wasn’t there, was he?”

Craxton swallows, visibly distraught by Slackjaw’s response to the information. “Not at first,” he says. “He was down the Clavering, but they sent for him when the ruckus started.”

Slackjaw laughs, shaking his head. “They set him up,” he says, his fist closing over the locket until the cold metal digs painfully into his skin. “Anything else?” he asks, because Craxton is not making a move to leave, instead chewing on his lip.

Craxton nods without looking Slackjaw in the face. “We were lookin’ for a way to get rid of the rats like you told us,” he mumbles. “We were thinking of some poison, maybe. Lyosha said the Tyvian stuff’s good, it has no smell and taste, so maybe it would fool the fucking rats, right?”

Slackjaw lets go off the locket, pressing his hands flat against his desk. He can tell where this is going. “Get to the point, Craxton,” he bites out, standing up and leaning forward, his chest heaving in uneven breath, his teeth bared.

“Campbell bought all of it,” Craxton blurts and ducks.

Slackjaw’s cleaver flies far from his ear and digs deep into the pillar supporting the stairs.

“Observe the situation,” Slackjaw says after a long while, his voice strangled and distant. “Report in the morning.”

Craxton nods immediately. “If—,” he starts, but Slackjaw cuts him off.

“No,” he says. “Don’t intervene, no matter what. We ain’t Daud, we won’t fend off Overseers if they come for us.”

“Right, boss, I just thought that maybe—. I was bein’ stupid,” Craxton says quickly. “I’ll be back in the mornin’, boss.”

He almost runs out of Slackjaw’s den, casting a quick glance at the cleaver stuck in the wood. Slackjaw slumps back into his chair, letting out a shaky laugh.

Curnow is smart, he’s a good strategist, he should have realised by now that he’s in danger. But he can be so hopelessly naive, so foolishly trusting, too. What if he falls into Campbell’s trap, what if he takes that drink just to be polite? He suspected Slackjaw of poisoning his drink once upon a time, would he be similarly distrustful of Thaddeus Campbell tonight?

Even if he is, Slackjaw realises, it won’t change shit. Curnow will be all alone in the High Overseer’s Office. What will stop Campbell from attacking him? Curnow’s good with a blade, he could win in a fair duel, one on one, but Campbell is a fucking coward, he’ll call for help as soon as Curnow draws his sword.

He wishes he could see Sally. She’d know how to calm him down, she’d make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish and put his people at risk. But Sally’s under quarantine that they’re both too afraid to break, so it’s just him, alone in his office, pacing from wall to wall, again and again, and again, like a wind-up toy, his breath slipping out of his control, his fingers trembling as he reaches for a bottle of whiskey and takes a long sip straight from it. He whispers broken prayers not to the Everyman or the Outsider, but to the Tyvian gods of his mother. He wishes for a miracle.

And a miracle happens.

Though it certainly doesn’t seem like it at first.

⬩

Craxton comes back at dawn. He doesn’t even have to speak, the way he cowers and casts fretful glances at Slackjaw’s cleaver, still stuck in the pillar says it all — he’s caught no sight of Curnow leaving the building. And Slackjaw’s no fool, he knows what this means, so he hides his face in his hands, no longer caring if his people figure out why exactly he’s so concerned for Captain Curnow’s fate. He barks at Craxton to leave him alone and reaches for another bottle of whisky.

He’s halfway through it when Lucretia walks in.

She doesn’t comment on his state, instead handing him a book. He struggles to focus his gaze on it.

“Found it in your apartment,” she says, her voice crisp. “He left it on the bed.”

Slackjaw sobers up within seconds, grabbing the book — a leather-bound 1817 copy of _Martyr of Utyrka_ by Alyona Nazareva, one of the books he gifted to Curnow after their first Fugue together, as a token of gratitude for helping him save Sally. He inhales sharply, thumbing through the pages, soft, yellowed, well-read.

He finds a passage marked with a pencil.

It’s about masks.

“Send Craxton to me, please,” he says, his voice breaking. He scrambles up to his feet, his head spinning from the whiskey and the intoxicating, impossible relief.

Lucretia nods, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “Go wash yourself in the meantime, boy,” she says. “You stink like a dead boar.”

He chuckles, but follows her advice.

⬩

He orders his boys to bring the masked felon to him as soon as they see him, and then decides to spend the day in his apartment. He knows Curnow won’t try to sneak in again, not when Campbell has been branded, the Overseers and the Watch are on the brink of a war and Hiram Burrows is probably searching for the man who inadvertently caused all this mess. But it’s good to change the environment for a little while, it’s good to lay down in bed and find that it still smells faintly of Curnow, as if he took a quick nap in there.

He finds a note in the pantry, pressed under a can of whale meat. It’s short and concise, written in the same neat, round handwriting as the note inside the locket and it’s so very Curnow that Slackjaw can’t help but laugh.

_Took some food and the fancy coat. I’m not sure I’ll give it back, it looks great on me._

He folds it and hides it in the locket as well.

⬩

When he returns to the distillery the next morning, his people are panicking. They had the first outbreak of the plague last night. Two people with light symptoms. Eight in quarantine.

Within the next three days they have twenty one confirmed cases. Most of them have never met one another. None of them are regular members of Slackjaw’s gang. All of them used the watered down elixir, and for a while Slackjaw thinks that he’s to blame, that it’s his tampering with the formulation that made it ineffective.

But he checks every confirmed case against his accounts and finds that they can all be traced to one specific batch of the elixir. The very last batch. The one that Craxton made.

He withdraws it from the market immediately, sending his boys to warn those who still haven’t taken their share, as he tries to figure out what went wrong. Craxton made the elixir before, and if there was ever any issue, it was him using too much of the original solution. The problem has to lie elsewhere.

He checks the ingredients and when they turn out fine, he opens the still to check for mold.

What he finds instead is a dead rat.

It’s cut open with precision and expertness. It’s cut with something small and very, very sharp. Something like a scalpel.

He sees red when he calls Crowley over and sends him to Luigi Galvani for answers to all of his burning questions.

Crowley doesn’t come back.

⬩

Those who drank the poisoned batch start weeping blood and Slackjaw has to lock them down. There are women and children among them. People who relied on his help. People who weren’t the target of that attack.

That’s when Corvo Attano shows up at his doorstep.

Slackjaw’s running out of options, his men either dead or dying, and he suspects that the former Lord Protector wouldn’t accept free information, anyway, so he jumps on the opportunity, offering Attano a quick and safe access to the Golden Cat in exchange for finding Crowley. Or what’s left of him. At this point, Slackjaw doesn’t have high hopes.

And rightfully so, as it turns out. When Attano comes back, he brings no answers, only more questions. A deal’s a deal, though. Slackjaw never goes back on a deal.

He doesn’t leave his debts unpaid, either, and he still owes Attano for saving Curnow.

“I could get rid of the Pendletons for you, quiet-like and without killin’ ‘em,” he offers. “But you gotta do something for me in return,” he adds when the light catches in Attano’s mask as he looks up sharply.

The deal he offers is ridiculously good — eliminating the two most influential nobles in exchange for a safe combination — but Attano takes it without question. Perhaps he assumes that Slackjaw is yet another money-hungry criminal, ready to kill for a handful of gold. Slackjaw lets him think that. It’s safer than sharing the truth.

He has the Pendletons shipped to their own mine within a week, just as he promised. He knows that shaving their heads isn’t going to conceal their identity for long, that sooner or later the very people the twins exploited will take their rightful revenge. He can’t say he feels remorse. If there’s anyone who deserves this fate it’s Morgan and Custis Pendletons.

**v.**

Things seem to settle down afterwards and Slackjaw falls for it like the fool he is.

Until one day his distillery fills with screams of dying men and he finds himself running, pistol and cleaver drawn, to face whatever danger has fallen upon them.

It’s rats.

Hundreds, thousands of rats, fat, reeking of blood and decay, smashing like waves into Slackjaw’s people, scratching and sinking their sharp little teeth into the human flesh with a sickeningly wet sound, squirming and squeaking, destroying everything and everyone on their way.

They stop when he comes out of his office and watch him for a moment, their beady little eyes alert, glistening with recognition. They seem to know who he is when they move, climbing onto one another, creating some horrifying mass of teeth, claws, and long, naked tails that reach out for him.

It’s as if they share a mind. It’s as if there’s a mind behind them.

He braces himself for a blow, aiming his pistol, tightening his grip on the cleaver, but the attack never comes. The mass of rats twists and turns towards the front door, towards Slackjaw’s people.

Slackjaw knows a trap when he sees one, but he still lunges into it head-first.

He tries everything to keep the rats from attacking the people on the streets — bullets and knives, and even fire. But there are too many of them, even if he hacked away at them for hours, it would hardly make a difference.

He roars at the civilians to hide at their homes and follows the tangled mass of rat bodies down the street, all the way to the sewers, hoping that whoever controls it will leave his people alone once they have him.

“Stay back,” he barks at those of his men who followed him till there. They try to protest, but he’s not having any of it. He turns around, fury blazing in his eyes, light catching in his cleaver. “I said stay back,” he roars, his voice echoing through the tunnels.

The thought of leaving him alone terrifies them, he can see that, but he’d rather have them safe and scared, than risking death in the dark underbelly of Dunwall.

“Craxton,” he says, quieter now. “You go to Sally. Make sure she’s fine. If anything happens to me—” he gives them a serious, pointed look, “you know who you answer to.”

Craxton swallows hard. Rodney and Jelly exchange glances. Jack grits his teeth and curls his fists.

“Get back to the distillery,” Slackjaw orders. “It should be safe now.”

They turn away, one by one, dragging their feet as they leave, glancing at him with worry in their eyes. Slackjaw has an example to set, so he rolls back his shoulders, tightens his grip on the cleaver, slipping in his sweaty palm, and walks through the sewer gate with his head held high.

The tunnels are eerily quiet, the only sounds being his careful steps and slow, rhythmic dripping of water. The rats are gone; it’s just him and the shrouded bodies of plague victims littering the floor, blocking the drains. He wants to speak up, announce his presence, challenge his tormentor, do anything just to disturb this silence that drives him mad with fear. He stays quiet out of spite.

He’s nearing Rudshore by now, he realises. The Flooded District. The Whalers’ hideout. He thinks of his people dying without noise, the killer leaving no trace. He thinks of the mass of rats looking at him with recognition in their beady little eyes, the obvious witchcraft behind it. He thinks of Daud’s knowing smirk at Sally’s funeral, the news of Billie Lurk’s treason and Daud siding with Lizzy Stride.

Then he sees it —

A whale, floating through the air.

It’s bloodied, its eyes plucked out, its teeth bared in agony. It looks straight through him with the dark, empty gashes of its eye sockets, opens its maw and it—

It sings.

Slackjaw stills, transfixed by the sound of it, the sorrow that reverberates through his bones, the yearning that brings tears to his eyes.

It’s the last thing he hears before everything dissolves into hot, white pain and then darkness.

⬩

He wakes up on his knees, shackled. Cold metal bites into the skin of his wrists and neck, gravel digs into his knees. His head spins and hurts. There’s a dull, pulsing ache that makes him want to throw up, and then a searing pain that nearly blinds him whenever he uses his face muscles. Blunt force trauma, the blow hard enough to have broken the skin on the back of his head. He’ll probably need a few stitches.

If he survives.

He tentatively tugs at the shackles. They’re sturdy, well greased, he won’t get out of them with brute force. He has a lockpick in the pouch at his belt, but he can’t reach it, no matter how he’d twist and turn. He needs someone to help him.

He takes a careful look around. The whale now sits on top of a derailed car, motionless and quiet. The ground is littered with bones, huge, curved — ribs of another leviathan. Something’s bubbling in a giant pot, something slimy and terrifying. There are magic circles all over the place, on the stone slabs and the walls, bright red and ornate.

“He’s awake, dearie.”

He turns his head, sharply, his neck screaming in hot, hot pain, vomit creeping up his throat as he loses his balance. His heart crawls up all the way to his mouth, blocking his airway.

_There is someone who wants you dead_ , Crowley said in his last message. _And you’ll never believe who it is neither. At first I didn’t._

It makes perfect sense now. They searched in all the wrong places, suspecting all the wrong people — natural philosophers, gang bosses, and assassins. But the truth is so much worse.

“I’m going to boil off the nasty fat and sinew and carve a pretty song on your bones,” Granny Rags says, grinning as she leans over him.

She smells of rats, of blood and death. Her eyes, the eyes that were supposed to be unseeing, see right through him and suddenly he’s a boy again, the little urchin prince with a name no one recalls anymore. He’s alone and scared, he’s small and scrawny, and he can only scream for help, beg for someone to please, _please_ come save him from this evil witch who plagued his nightmares two and a half decades ago, making him wet his bed. He spews out promises mixed with prayers, not to the Everyman or the Outsider, but to the old, forgotten gods of Tyvia, the gods of his mother, the gods who have never failed him.

They don’t fail him this time, either.

Corvo Attano once more shows up at a very wrong place at a very right time, his mask glistening ominously as he refuses to help Granny Rags in whatever sick ritual she has planned.

“Corvo,” Slackjaw whispers, dropping all pretense, his voice high-pitched and on the verge of breaking. “Corvo, please. I can make you rich, I can— Whatever you want, name your price and I’ll—.”

He catches a glimpse of Attano’s eyes, brown and offended. The Protector doesn’t say anything, simply reaching for his sword, a strange, folding thing, but wonderfully sharp.

“You can’t kill her with a sword,” Slackjaw whispers, suddenly recalling all the stories he’s heard in his childhood. He learned to dismiss them as he grew older, but they’re still there, engraved in his memory, clear as a day. “There’s a cameo, a part of an old necklace. You have to burn it, it’s the only way to get rid of her forever.”

Corvo looks at him, his eyes surprised, questioning behind the mask. Slackjaw tugs on the shackles, leaning forward.

“Please,” he yelps. “Don’t let her—.”

Corvo nods shortly, curling his left fist and then he’s gone in a flash of pale blue. Slackjaw sees him reappear several paces further on the stairs to Granny’s lair. He laughs helplessly to himself, realising that all this time he’s been surrounded by witches. Granny Rags, Daud, Corvo. No wonder Attano managed to sneak Curnow out of the High Overseer’s Office, who wouldn’t, with powers like those at their disposal.

Slackjaw can only watch, praying to his trusted Tyvian gods, the gods that always had his back. There’s a flash of orange flames followed by an angry shriek and a hair-raising squeak of rats. Shots, one and then another, a clang of the sword hitting concrete. Granny Rags’ threats echoing far between the stone walls.

“You think you’re going to save him? He’s not worth it!” Granny growls.

They vanish and disappear — Corvo in flashes of blue, Granny Rags in clouds of dark smoke. The rats squirm all over the floor. The whale begins to sing again, but this time it’s a battle cry, a tune of fury and anguish.

It all dies down once Corvo’s sword pierces through Granny Rags’ bird-like chest, its bloodied tip emerging from her back. The rats are gone. The leviathan still and silent. Corvo yanks his blade from the body that fades into nothingness.

For a moment they both remain still, listening for a sign of danger, but it never comes. Corvo picks up the key and frees Slackjaw, who scrambles to his feet, fighting the nausea and vertigo.

Corvo doesn’t speak, so Slackjaw fills the silence with nonsensical blabber about his childhood and thanks to Attano for saving his life. He reaches for a cigarette, straining to appear nonchalant and unfazed, and not like someone who’s almost been made into some weird occult soup and can barely stand on his two legs. He has no idea if Corvo actually falls for this act, but he leaves, taking Granny’s key with him.

Slackjaw waits till he can’t hear Corvo’s footsteps anymore and then slides back to his knees, bends in half and throws up until there’s nothing left in his stomach. His head is aching madly, warm blood trickles down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. But he grits his teeth, closes his left hand on Curnow’s locket and stands up.

It takes him what feels like hours to get back to the gate. He moves slowly, pressing against the walls to stay upright or on all fours, shivering in the cold air, his ears ringing. He vomits twice more. At one point his vision goes dark for several terrifying minutes. But every time he gets up and pushes forward.

Along the way, he stumbles upon a corpse, fresh, half-eaten by the rats. He’d probably ignore it, but he’s back on all fours, crawling through the corridor with his face just inches from the floor and he just can’t miss the signet ring on the corpse’s finger. He freezes.

It’s Jack. Poor, daft Jack who must’ve gone back for him.

He almost gives up right there. He’s tired, bleeding, shaking from the fever and suffering from a concussion. He’s been through enough fights to know that a concussion this bad can be dangerous, fatal even. There’s no guarantee that he’ll live, even if he makes it out of the sewers.

He sits back against the wall, letting his eyes close, his hand moving to his neck and curling over the locket. He turns it between his fingers for a moment before suddenly snapping back to reality.

If he stays here, Curnow won’t know what happened to him. If he crawls back to the distillery, he can at least tell Lucretia to—

He forces his eyes open and stands up, slowly, his vision blurring, the ringing in his ears deafening by now. He digs his fingers into the moss-covered walls and takes a step forward. One and then another.

When he finally emerges into the streets, Dunwall’s forever-grey sky almost blinds him. He covers his eyes, dropping to the ground and dry heaving. He can’t recognise the place he’s in, the buildings seem too tall, stretching into infinity, the streetlamps spinning around him.

All that he remembers afterwards is a distant rumble, the sky splitting open and then nothing but thick, sticky darkness.

⬩

When he wakes up again, it's in an unfamiliar bed. He's awfully thirsty, so he tries to sit up and look for some water, but he's immediately stopped by a small hand pressing him back into the mattress.

"Welcome back to life, lad," Sally says, there’s an odd note to her voice. "You gave us all a fright."

"Sorry," Slackjaw croaks. He must’ve been unconscious. "How long…?"

He doesn't finish the question, but Sally understands it anyway. "A day," she says.

"Almost two." That would be Lucretia. Very pissed off, judging by her tone. "What were you thinking, going alone to Void knows where. What if you didn't make it out?"

He almost hasn't made it out, he remembers. "Sorry," he repeats, letting his eyes close. He's so tired. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you'd tell us," Sally says, chuckling helplessly. "The boys said you got attacked by the rats. You chased them to the sewers and then you decided to go in alone."

Slackjaw nods. He remembers that.

"Jelly found you hours later, near Clavering. They were patrolling the sewer entrances, waiting for you," Sally continues. "You were unconscious. Bleedin’. Someone cut that stupid head of yours. Baxter put some stitches to it, says it's good as new, but he was worried you wouldn't wake up."

Slackjaw cracks his eyes open to look at Sally, pale and visibly shaken. He reaches out to hold her hand. "I'm fine," he mutters. "Got hit in the head, I think."

"You _think_?" she repeats, her voice going up an octave or two, drilling a hole in his brain. "Do you at least remember who you fought, who was behind those attacks?"

He strains his memory, but all that comes to him is pictures of odd things — a whale perched on a railcar, rats climbing onto one another, a bloodied corpse with a signet ring on its finger.

"Jack's dead," he says.

Sally gasps softly. "How?" she asks.

Slackjaw shakes his head.

"Enough of this interrogation, Sally," Lucretia snaps. "This boy needs rest. He needs to eat and drink. You can question him once he recovers."

She appears within his field of view, carrying a tall glass of cold water that she presses to his mouth, while cradling the back of his head in her other hand. He drinks greedily, some of the water trickling down his chin. It tastes so good he could cry.

"More," he rasps, once he's done.

It’s Sally who brings him the next glass.

**vi.**

Dunwall slowly goes back to normal after that. Corvo Attano saves his daughter from Havelock and his pet priest and within the week it takes Slackjaw to recover, he crowns the new Empress. Anton Sokolov teams up with Piero Joplin and together they manage the feat neither of them achieved on their own — they find a cure to the plague.

By the end of the year, there are no more new outbreaks and the other Isles lift off their economic ban on Gristol. The prices are still steep, but it no longer costs arm and leg just to eat. Those in need of a job can easily find it in the Rudshore Financial District, abandoned by Daud and his Whalers and in a desperate need of renovation.

The Empress — or perhaps her father — promotes Curnow, who immediately puts his newly gained influence to restore order in the Watch. He introduces a new set of rules and punishments for abuse of position and power, and immediately court-martials Roebin to make an example. The watchmen are quiet as mice after that.

Slackjaw meets with Lizzy Stride to divide the city between the two of them now that the Geezer is dead and Daud holed up Void knows where. They strike a deal within an hour — Slackjaw takes the south, Lizzy claims the north, with some zones marked as off limits and some deemed neutral, as long as their people show no hostility. Slackjaw gets to keep his brothels and drug market, in exchange allowing Lizzy full freedom on Wrenhaven and in its harbours.

He starts brewing whiskey again but puts his plague-time experience to use, ordering the reparation of some old stills so he can continue producing rubbing alcohol and chloroform. Soon enough he expands his pharmaceutical side-business, adding a poppy tincture and a variety of herb-based syrups and salves. He puts it under Lucretia’s name, which greatly helps the sales and guarantees her a steady and perfectly legal income.

For the first time in a long while, things are good.

⬩

Come Fugue, Curnow knocks on his door mere minutes after the bell, as if he’s been waiting, ready to run the second he hears it. He lets out a strangled, wet sigh, when Slackjaw opens and then he’s in Slackjaw’s arms, mumbling something incomprehensible against his neck. Slackjaw kicks the door closed, embracing Curnow tighter, heart hammering in his chest, fists clasped at the back of Curnow’s coat, which isn’t really Curnow’s, it’s Slackjaw’s, it’s the fancy coat Curnow took from his closet after that fateful visit at the High Overseer’s Office.

Slackjaw laughs, taking a step back. “It really does look good on you,” he says, a little nasally, as he runs a hand down the front of the coat.

“Told you so,” Curnow replies, winking playfully. “You’re not getting it back, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”

Slackjaw chuckles, taking a good look at Curnow — his body, a lot thinner than it used to be, his sallow face and the unfamiliarly deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He’s battered and tired, but alive and more beautiful than ever before.

“Is that…?” Curnow asks, raising a hand to touch the locket resting against Slackjaw’s chest.

“Ah, yes,” Slackjaw admits, reaching up to take it off his neck. “I believe you left it here at some point.”

Curnow laughs softly, taking Slackjaw by the hand and pulling it away from the necklace. “You’ve been wearing it this whole time?” he asks, his mouth twitching in an expression that Slackjaw doesn’t quite understand.

He nods and Curnow lets out a soft, broken gasp, intertwining their fingers. “Keep it,” he whispers, his other hand curling in the hair at the back of Slackjaw’s head, pulling him down into a slow, tender kiss.

“I was afraid that—,” Curnow mumbles when their lips part eventually. His eyes are closed, brows pinched in an expression that tears something inside Slackjaw’s chest open.

“Me too,” he admits, breathlessly, his hand closing on Curnow’s waist. “When I heard about Campbell, I thought that—”

“Shh,” Curnow hums, cupping his cheek and kissing him quiet. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

They spend the rest of the night tangled in a tight, desperate embrace, sharing sweet, heartfelt kisses and stories of the Rat Plague, spoken in hushed voices. Curnow tells him in detail how Corvo saved him from Campbell’s sword and Slackjaw repays him with whatever bits and pieces he can remember of his confrontation with Granny Rags.

They hardly let go of each other this Fugue. They hold hands and lock gazes even when they cook or eat, subconsciously terrified that it may all crumble before their eyes, that it’s just a beautiful interlude in a long nightmare.

“Missed you,” Curnow sighs, with his hands full of Slackjaw’s tousled locks, when they make love in the morning, sunlight painting his skin pink, placing shadows above his jutting collarbones and in the hollow of his throat, highlighting the sleek lines of his hips. “Missed you so fucking much.”

“Geoff,” Slackjaw gasps time and time over inbetween kisses, when they sit in the bathtub, Curnow in his lap, moving his hips in a perfectly broken rhythm, looking Slackjaw deep in the eyes, his breath hitching every time he hears his name.

Fugue lasts longer this year. It’s Yul Khulan’s cheap ploy to improve the Abbey’s public image, after the last two High Overseers turned out to be traitorous dogs, but Slackjaw doesn’t really mind it that much, as long as he gets to spend another day and night in Curnow’s arms. But it’s still not enough to satiate their hunger for each other, and when the bells toll on the third day, their eyes are full of despair as they share their last frantic kisses.

**vii.**

Something changes in the years after that.

Fugues seem to get shorter, while the months inbetween stretch into infinity. They can’t stop thinking about each other and grow reckless, dead dropping messages and gifts for each other, risking someone finding out about them. There are days when Slackjaw’s yearning for Curnow causes him pain that’s almost physical, days he spends roaming senselessly around the distillery, barely registering what’s going on around him, days when he forgets to eat and when he finds no motivation to get up from bed.

Dunwall feels like a trap, it suffocates him with each bleak morning and each night filled with the stench of rivermud and whiskey. He finds himself gazing at the whaling trawlers headed for the sea and he wants to ditch Dunwall and Gristol so bad.

He has more than enough money to do so and start a new life elsewhere — the misty moors of Morley, or perhaps the sunny orchards of Serkonos. But Curnow won’t leave his Watch, not when he finally has a say, a real, tangible influence he can use to do some good. And Slackjaw can’t force himself to leave Curnow behind, try as he may.

⬩

Five years after the Rat Plague, Dunwall is back to its former glory, its economy and population booming. Slackjaw makes more money than ever before, he owns half of this Voidforsaken city and even the nobles show him reluctant respect.

It’s all he’s ever dreamt of.

It brings him no joy.

Five years after the Rat Plague, Slackjaw begins to dream of ice-bound lakes and vast seas of grass, of shepherds pasturing sheep and camels, and fishermen hoisting nets full of herring, of colourful buildings with domes like onions.

Five years after the Rat Plague, Slackjaw meets the gods he’s prayed to many a time, the gods who are both women and birds, and who are neither, the gods whose eyes — one white, three green, five black — gaze straight into his soul.

‘What is it you want?’ the gods ask him, their voices merging into one, they sound like his mother, they sound like a hawk, they sound like something out of his world.

And Slackjaw ought to know better — he _does_ know better — than to share his wishes with beings more ancient than the Empire he was born to, but he’s tired and has no reason to distrust those three creatures before him, the gods of past, present and future, the gods of death, life and remembrance, the gods who saved him so many times.

‘What is it you want?’ the gods repeat, merging into one fury of feathers and limbs, its white eye turning into three green, into five black, all of them gazing deep into Slackjaw’s most secret desires. ‘Say it, child.’

Five years after the Rat Plague, Slackjaw closes his eyes and says, ‘A change.’

The gods — the god — smile upon him, a smile of a woman in the face of a bird, a smile of a bird in the face of a woman, a mountain cracking open, a tear in the fabric of the universe.

⬩

He thinks nothing of those dreams and shares them with no one, until one morning he walks into his office and sees Daud behind his desk.

His hair is greyed, the wrinkles on his weather-beaten face deeper, but his eyes are as alert as ever and Slackjaw knows that the Knife has lost none of his sharpness.

“Now, that’s a surprise,” Slackjaw says, tilting his head to the side and crossing his arms over his chest.

Daud flashes his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“The Lord Protector wants to see you, Sasha,” he says.


	2. The Three-Eyed Bird of Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Slackjaw meets his gods and learns the truth.

**i.**

They’ve always called him Slackjaw, ever since he left the lavish, safe interiors of his mother’s brothel and landed on the streets, fighting tooth and nail to survive, stealing just to eat.

But there was a time before that, when he answered to a different name, a name spoken with tenderness, woven into lullabies, a name like a kiss on the forehead, like a warm hug.

> ‘Sasha? There’s my little Prince,’ his mother says, her gentle fingers wiping his tears away. ‘Hush, don’t cry, my lion, don’t cry, Sashenka.’

“Are you going to come on your own, or do I need to incapacitate you?” Daud asks, his wristbow clicking softly as he loads it with a sleep dart, the sound of it snapping Slackjaw back to reality.

“What does he want from me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

It’s not about his crimes. If Attano wanted him hanged, he would’ve done it long ago, he would’ve sent the City Watch or perhaps even the Royal Guard to drag Slackjaw out of his lair right after the Rat Plague.

Instead, Attano sends Daud, of all people, the Empress’ murderer, the knife for hire, to— what? Fetch Slackjaw to the Tower? What for?

> The three-eyed bird smiles. It’s the smile of Slackjaw’s mother. It’s Daud’s wolfish grin. It’s a bloody gash across a man’s throat.
> 
> ‘A change,’ the three-eyed bird caws. ‘A change for the Prince.’

“It’s a strange story,” Daud says, standing up from behind the desk. He moves slowly, almost sluggishly, but Slackjaw doesn’t let it fool him. “And I’m not much of a storyteller.”

Slackjaw snorts, his fingers moving to touch the locket on his chest. “Am I coming back here?” he asks.

Daud’s face is expressionless, his grey eyes cold as Wrenhaven in the Month of Ice. “I wouldn’t have high hopes, if I were you,” he says.

Well, at least he’s being honest.

“Give me a minute, then,” Slackjaw asks, leaning over the desk and turning on the microphone, not waiting for Daud’s permission. “Craxton, my office, now,” he barks, harsher than intended. His voice sounds through the loudspeakers, echoes across the distillery.

Daud nods almost imperceptibly and then vanishes into thin air. It’s only because Slackjaw knows every inch of his office by heart that he notices the Knife, blending into the shadows behind the still.

Outsider’s fucking tricks.

Craxton’s at the door within minutes. “Boss?”

Slackjaw sucks a breath through his teeth, straightening his spine, rolling back his shoulders. “I have an old unfinished business to attend to,” he says, his voice casual, as if he had everything under control.

Craxton frowns, not falling for this act, immediately sniffing out danger. Slackjaw’s lips twitch in a sad kind of a smirk.

“Keep an eye at the distillery and Lucretia’s shop while I’m gone,” he orders. Craxton nods, opening his mouth to say something along the lines of ‘yes, boss’, but Slackjaw raises a hand to shush him. “And if I’m not back by tomorrow night, you know what to do.”

“Boss?” Craxton says, his voice low, uncertain. “What’s goin’ on?”

Slackjaw meets Daud’s eyes above the still, and snorts. “Some dark, twisted shit,” he says. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, though. And keep your yapper shut till tomorrow, Craxton. We don’t want no panic, do we now?”

Craxton swallows hard, his knuckles cracking when he curls his fists. He nods, eyes closing, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath in.

He’s going to obey Slackjaw, even though Sally will give him hell for that in two days' time, and Slackjaw supposes this has to mean something; he must’ve been a better leader than he thought, if his people are this loyal to him. It’s a bittersweet thing to realise right when he’s about to lose them.

Craxton leaves Slackjaw’s cramped office, dragging his feet, his head hanging low. Slackjaw watches him, clenching his jaws, his throat painfully constricted.

“We goin’ by boat?” he rasps, once the coast is clear and Daud steps out from the shadows, pointing a gloved hand to the door.

“Yes,” the Knife says. “I’ll meet you at the riverside. Don’t try anything stupid.”

Slackjaw scoffs, shooting him a look, as sharp as his cleaver. “I ain’t daft,” he bites out. “Be there soon. Gotta change, dress up for the occasion.”

Daud raises one brow in an expression that looks almost comical on his weather-beaten, scarred face. Slackjaw grins and shrugs in response.

“It ain’t every day you get to visit Dunwall Tower,” he says. “Gotta make a good impression.”

⬩

It’s not the royal skiff that’s waiting for him at the riverbank near Clavering Boulevard. Understandably.

The boat is small, old, and rusty, and Slackjaw can swear he’s seen it before. Just like the two men waiting for him inside.

“Hey, weren’t you workin’ with that masked felon a while back?” he asks casually, smiling at the old man sitting at the rudder. Samuel Beechworth narrows his eyes ever so slightly, but says nothing, so Slackjaw turns to the other familiar face. “And if that ain't Thomas the Little Whaler,” he says. “I thought your gang disbanded.”

Thomas smirks in response and Slackjaw barely holds back a sigh. The last time he saw him, Thomas was still a boy, eighteen at best, with baby fat rounding his features and eyes full of naïveté. Now his face is all sharp lines adorned with pale freckles, his eyes cold green, like some sort of a precious stone, and his lips—

They’re deserving of poems.

“Do I look like a Whaler to you?” Thomas says, brushing back his golden hair, curling a little from the humidity in the air.

“What are you, then?” Slackjaw asks, trying to smooth down his own hair, doubled in size by now, and not in a fashionable or pretty way. Damn Dunwall with its biting fog and riverdamp air.

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.” It’s Daud, landing softly on the wet ground, eyes narrowed into slits, body tipped forward, as if he’s listening for something. “Are we ready to go?”

“Jus’ waitin’ on your order,” Samuel Beechworth says, his mouth curling into an expression of poorly concealed contempt. He’s not happy about the task he was given, but apparently didn't have it in him to say no to the Lord Protector.

“Off we go, then,” Daud says, pointing Slackjaw into the boat.

It’s been months since the last Fugue and the sight of his gloved fingers moving with remarkable grace does something to Slackjaw. He shakes his head and steps into this little husk of a boat, but it’s so damn small that his thigh presses against Thomas’. He wants to scream.

Daud crouches at the bow, eyes boring into the fog, right hand on the blade, left curled ever so slightly. “Keep to the southern side of the river,” he orders. “There’s a trawler ahead of us.”

Samuel Beechworth says nothing as he puts his boat in motion. Slackjaw closes his left hand on the side of it, his right instantly darting to the locket hanging over his neck. It’s a short trip, he tells himself, he can make it.

He grinds his teeth when the boat takes on speed, moving past something huge and slow, probably the whaling trawler Daud spoke about. Slackjaw can’t see the horizon, nor the water, really, and the stench of rotting plants and fish hanging in the thick air begins to gag him sooner than he expected.

“Here,” Thomas says, offering him something that looks like yellowish candy. “Ginger,” he explains in response to Slackjaw’s questioning look. “Helps against nausea.”

Part of him wants to stand on his dignity and refuse, but the other decides that accepting help from a former Whaler is far less humiliating than showing up at Dunwall Tower with clothes covered in vomit. He carefully picks one cube and winces as soon as he bites into it. It would be nice in tea, perhaps, but in this form it just burns against his tongue.

It does help with the nausea, though, and keeps him from throwing up all over his fancy silk shirt and floral-patterned velour trousers. So there’s that, at least.

They pass under the Kaldwin’s Bridge, keeping to the southern riverbank for as long as they can, crossing to the north only once they’re well past the Estate District with all its guards and security systems.

The fog thins eventually, revealing the Tower — a mass of white stone sat atop a cliff. Slackjaw finds it rather disappointing. He’s always imagined that from up close it would be somehow more ornate, like the onion-domed buildings he sees in his dreams. It’s just a big mansion made of expensive white granite, though, with the Coldridge Prison looming behind it like a ghost of Dunwall’s criminal past.

“Here’s good,” Daud says a good few hundred metres from the waterlock and Samuel shoots him a surprised look. “Get out of here as soon as we set foot on the shore.”

Thomas smirks, his poem-worthy mouth twitching, and then he’s gone, leaving behind a trail of sickly green. Samuel pales, his eyes rounding.

Daud turns to Slackjaw, his face expressionless as ever. “Hold on tight,” he says, vanishing before Slackjaw can ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

He gets to exchange one confused look with Samuel, and then he’s yanked in the air by some invisible force, his stomach lurching as he flies towards the shore, limbs flailing hopelessly.

He lands on the wet rocks, head spinning madly, and he nearly falls down. Daud grabs him by the back of the shirt and holds until Slackjaw finally gets his shaky breath and buckling knees under control.

“Don’t _ever_ do it again,” Slackjaw slurs, his mouth full of spit.

Daud lets go off his shirt, looking up the almost perfectly vertical cliff in front of them. Slackjaw feels himself blanch at the sight. “If you really want to climb, be my guest,” Daud says, glancing at Slackjaw’s fancy velour trousers with an amused smirk. “Not sure how you’re gonna manage in those, though.”

“I fucking hate you,” Slackjaw mutters, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his clammy palms on it. “Can’t you at least be more gentle when you do that?”

The corner of Daud’s mouth twitches. “Want me to hold your hand, Slackjaw?”

Slackjaw kicks a rock in his direction. “Get lost, asshole.”

“We could try transversing him rather than tethering?” Thomas suggests, offering Slackjaw an apologetic smile. “I can do it,” he adds when Daud winces.

Daud looks at him and it’s a strange mixture of sternness and affection that makes Slackjaw feel like an intruder, as if he’s walked in on them in a very intimate moment. “Don’t get carried away,” Daud says, his voice softer than normally. “Move slowly, short distances at a time. I’ll be waiting at the top.”

Thomas nods, smiling in a way that feels like a stab to Slackjaw’s stomach. It’s the same kind of a tender little smile Geoff cracks whenever Slackjaw’s being a stubborn ass, this covert little ‘I’m going to let you believe you call the shots, just ‘cause I don’t feel like arguing’, and, gods, Slackjaw misses Geoff so bad.

Daud closes his left fist and then he’s gone, reappearing halfway up the cliff and then vanishing again, and Slackjaw can’t help but sigh in awe. He’s sure that the Outsiders gifts come with a price, but they _are_ wonderful.

“Grab my waist,” Thomas says, bringing him back to reality. He’s looking at the stone wall of the cliff, face set in determination, legs slightly apart, and Slackjaw swallows thickly. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” Thomas assures, glancing at Slackjaw over his shoulder.

That is very much not the reason for Slackjaw's stupid qualms, but he’d rather burn to a crisp than admit that, so he steps in, wrapping his arms loosely around Thomas’ midriff, trying to hold on to his clothes rather than his body and inching his hips as far away as he can without it being ridiculous.

Thomas presses Slackjaw’s arm against his stomach, intertwining their fingers, and then sends them through space by simply closing his left fist. The rush of air against his skin, the sickening sensation of his stomach pressing against his spine knocks all improper thoughts out of Slackjaw’s mind.

They lurch from one small stone shelf to another, Slackjaw pressing against Thomas’ back just to keep from falling, hiding his face in the crook of Thomas’ neck just so he doesn’t look down and see how impossibly high they are.

When they finally land on top of the cliff, he falls to his knees and crawls away from the edge, gasping for breath as if he were held underwater for the last five minutes. He doesn’t get up for a long time, until Daud nudges him gently with the tip of his leather boot.

“We should get going.”

“No more climbing?” Slackjaw asks weakly, staring at the white body of Dunwall Tower in front of him. It looks cold and inhospitable, and he already hates it with passion.

Daud doesn’t respond and this alone tells Slackjaw everything he needs to know. They’re headed to the small tower perched on the roof.

“You sure they need me alive?” he mutters. “‘Cause I’d much rather be dead than do this, if you don’t mind.”

Thomas chuckles softly, patting Slackjaw on the shoulder. “Two transversals,” he says. “There’s a painter’s lift on the second floor.”

Slackjaw scrambles up to his feet, retrieving the handkerchief he uses to dab on his sweaty forehead. “I love how you make it sound like that’s any better than all your fucken witchcraft,” he grumbles. “Alright. Let’s get goin’,” he says, grinding his teeth as he wraps his arms around Thomas’ waist once more.

Needless to say, he spends the lift ride on his knees, retching over the edge.

⬩

To Daud’s credit, he gives Slackjaw a while to pull himself together. By the time they walk — through the fucking _balcony_ — into a large room at the very top of the tower on top of the Tower, Slackjaw actually looks half-decent and even manages to muster his trademark cocky smirk.

There are two people waiting for them in the room — the Lord Protector himself, hunched over a large table, and Anton Sokolov, the Royal Physician, sprawled in a chair, swirling what looks and reeks like King Street Brandy in a glass.

Corvo looks good now that he’s put on some weight, cut his hair and lost that creepy mask he wore when they first met. He shakes Slackjaw’s hand, which is nice of him. Slackjaw’s sure that most people living here would rather spit in his face.

“Welcome. Take a seat, please,” Corvo says, pointing him to a chair in a gesture that’s a strange cross between a languid invitation and a sharp command. “Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Slackjaw says, sitting down in a large, plush armchair, feet far apart, elbows pressed into the armrests. He catches Daud’s brief, appreciative smirk. It’s a position that looks nonchalant, but allows him to jump back to his feet within seconds, should the need arise. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks.

“It’s quite a complex story,” Corvo says, cracking a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not sure I can do it justice. Anton, would you, please?” he asks, turning around to face Sokolov; his movements are stiff and his voice overly polite, giving it away as amateurish acting.

Sokolov sighs dramatically, waving a hand in the air, and either he’s much better at pretending, or he’s really annoyed with the part he was told to play. Either way, Slackjaw can’t help but grin at his performance.

“Thank you,” Corvo says in the same, forcefully polite tone, and then turns to Daud and his little Whaler. “Thomas, would you, please, be so kind and bring General Curnow here? He must be waiting downstairs.”

The world stops for a second, the only sound being Slackjaw’s mad heartbeat echoing through his temples, the only sight a fury of white feathers.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Corvo says, making the time resume.

If it were anyone else, the insistence would be getting Slackjaw suspicious. But Corvo Attano is not the man to try poison, he's just someone who really sucks at conventions.

“Absolutely positive,” Slackjaw says, turning the locket between his fingers and watching Corvo pour himself some water and down it right away, fingers clenched a little too tight, teeth clattering against the glass.

When they met during the Rat Plague, Corvo hardly spoke, and if he did, it was in jagged, broken sentences that sounded as if he had to rip them out of his throat. Now he speaks too much and too fast, his voice breathy, coming from the tops of his lungs rather than the diaphragm.

Corvo Attano is scared shitless and this can only mean one thing — his precious daughter is in danger again.

What in the Void does it have to do with Slackjaw, though?

He looks at Daud in search of an answer, but the Knife’s face is unreadable as ever, his eyes fixed on the door, fingers drumming softly against the upholstery of his chair.

Then the door opens and nothing matters anymore. Slackjaw bites hard at the inside of his cheek just to keep from sighing out loud as he looks at Geoff — clad in the royal blues of his uniform, decorated like a birthday cake with his hard-earned medals, his eyes like mountain springs, mouth pressed into a determined line.

Their eyes meet across the room and it’s like a lightning bolt, like an earthquake.

> ‘A gift,’ the one-eyed bird cooes, its voice soft like wind rustling through the leaves, like turning pages, like Curnow in the darkest hours. ‘A gift for the Prince.’

“Slackjaw,” Curnow snarls and he sounds exactly like that night years ago, when they stumbled into each other at The Drunken Whaler.

“General Curnow,” Slackjaw drawls in response, flashing his teeth in a hungry grin.

“Curnow, sit down, please,” Corvo says, stepping between the two of them, eyes darting from one to another, as if he’s trying to figure out if they would tear each other apart if left alone.

Geoff nods and obliges, never letting his eyes leave Slackjaw, choosing a chair that grants him the perfect view at Slackjaw’s face — he looks like a wary soldier keeping an eye on a criminal, the burning intensity of his stare so easy to misinterpret, while it takes all of Slackjaw's self-control to make his smile seem jeering, not affectionate, to disguise the tilt of his body as getting ready to attack rather than desperately wishing to pull Geoff into a kiss.

“Anton, may we start?” Corvo says, blissfully unaware of everything, just pouring himself another glass of water and downing that as well.

Sokolov stands up, his joints creaking as he moves towards the table where everyone can see him clearly. The bright light of the lamp does him no favours, revealing his greying hair and sagging skin, as well as liver spots covering his hands and face. Sokolov should’ve given up drinking long ago. Instead, he takes another sip of his King Street Brandy, not even wincing as he swallows.

“I don’t suppose you’re particularly well-versed in modern history,” he says, giving Slackjaw a pointed, mocking look.

> ‘History, Sasha, is the most important thing you can ever learn,’ his mother says, her white feathers stroking his cheek.
> 
> ‘Those who know their past, can predict the future,’ she explains, gazing at him with her three green eyes.
> 
> ‘Those who know not their story are bound to perish,’ she finishes, baring her teeth, as black as her many feathers, as her five scorching eyes.

“You’d be surprised,” Slackjaw says, grinning. “But, please, go on. I know you’re usually too drunk to make it to your lectures. You must actually miss giving them.”

Sokolov’s eyes glimmer with wicked amusement. “Very well,” he says through his teeth. “I take it, I don’t need to explain the events of the Tyvian Revolution, then?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, no,” Slackjaw says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles.

His mother hailed from Tyvia, of course he knows the story of the 1805 coup, the story of Secretary Kalin ordering the brutal murder of Princess Anna and her two daughters — Alyona and Elena — in their summer residence just outside of Samara; the story of Prince Vsevolod escaping death by the skin of his teeth, when he decided to stay in town a few hours longer to finish some paperwork; the story of Prince's exile followed by slow descend into madness.

It was Slackjaw’s favorite story back when he was a little boy and couldn’t comprehend that it wasn’t a mere tale, but the terrifying truth.

> A woman shielding two girls with her own body. Three corpses hoisted on stakes, a crowd like hornets in the nest, swarming beneath them. A man, hands bandaged up to the elbows, staring blankly into the sea, still and endlessly black. People pulled out of their homes in the dead of night, their capturers clad in clothes blacker than the five-eyed bird itself. Red banners unfurling in the wind. Prison camps filled with convicts. ‘People have decided!’ Secretary Kalin lies. ‘In the name of the People of Tyvia!’ he says, raising his hand high in a blessing. When he lets it fall, the public enemy’s head falls with it, in the sacred sacrifice to the ever-present god of greed.

“Great,” Sokolov says, leaning against the table and taking another long sip of his brandy. “This will save us some precious time. Officially, Tyvia is fully democratic and Kalin’s regime supported by the people.” He winces, putting his glass down with force that betrays his otherwise carefully concealed anger. “I hope to the fucking Many-Eyed God that no one tries to argue with me that it’s actually the case.”

> The Many-Eyed God smiles with its many teeth, its many eyes closing in a tender smile as it drags its countless feathered fingers over Sokolov’s untamed hair.

“Regardless,” Sokolov spits like a glob of phlegm. “There’s a strong faction of royalists, preying on people’s nostalgia and collective amnesia, spinning a beautiful tale about how one day the old Prince Vsevolod will reclaim his throne in a battle to end all battles and set everything right again.”

Slackjaw chuckles under his breath. “That sure would be a sight to behold,” he says. “The guy must be ancient by now.”

“He’s dead by now,” Sokolov says sharply, looking him in the eye. “Heart attack. Three days ago. He was eighty-six.”

Slackjaw frowns. “Why didn’t it make the news?” he asks slowly. “The Exiled Prince was the press’ favourite little drama topic. You’d think they’d be reporting on his tragic end before he went cold.”

Sokolov’s mouth twitches in a smirk that’s somehow both amused and disgusted.

“We forbade them from writing about it,” Corvo Attano says, his voice like gravel. Slackjaw raises his brows in surprise. Corvo pulls on his lower lip with his teeth, eyes darting to Daud for a split second. “It required some… gentle persuasion on our part.”

“Right,” Slackjaw says, the acid burning up his throat again.

That explains why Attano is so jittery. Vsevolod had been old, senile, physically and mentally incapable of raising ruckus. But as soon as the news of his death spreads, all of his kith and kin will start to fight for the title of the Exiled Royal, and if it were won by someone with a little ambition and a lot of money…

The Empire cannot afford a civil war up in Tyvia, not when so much of the economy depends on the north with its meat industry, orchards and labor camps supplying Dunwall with endless streams of goods and precious metals.

“So, who are the new contenders to the title?” Slackjaw asks, resting his cheek on a hand, turning his gaze back to Sokolov, who seems to care more for the people who will inevitably die in the friendly fire and therefore is less repulsive than Corvo, thinking solely in terms of lost profits and military efforts.

Sokolov sucks his teeth, casting a quick glance towards Corvo. “Since the Korolev line officially ended with Vsevolod, most of the claims are rather muddy from the legal standpoint, but, obviously, it’s about charisma and money, rather than the actual lineage.”

He lifts his glass up to his mouth, but stands it back, before taking a drink.

“There’s the young Count Kropotkin, nephew to late Princess Anna,” he says, beginning to pace back and forth along the table, “but since he’s not a blood relation, he won’t get far. Then we have Countess Lukomska, whose great-grandmother was Vsevolod’s paternal grandmother. Again, a muddy claim, but Lukomscy are an old family and quite well respected,” he says, stroking his bushy beard that looks as if he hasn’t washed it in days. He probably hasn’t, the courtesans always commented on his poor hygiene. “And then there’s Duchess Ohryzko, second cousin to Vsevolod. The strongest claim, perhaps, but what makes her really dangerous is the amount of money and influence she has behind her. Her mother married into the Kadlec family, who claim to be related to Karel Topek himself. Ohryzkos are a very old line, too, maternal cousins to the Olaskirs.”

He gives his beard a sharp tug, stopping right in front of Slackjaw, blocking Curnow from his view. “Let’s say Kropotkin poses no threat and can be removed from the equation,” Sokolov says, his eyes burning and far too sober for someone who drinks so damn much. “We still have two players who can fight each other for _years_ , before they start running out of money. But the country? They’ll turn it to dust in _months_.”

Slackjaw sighs, shifting in his seat so that he can see Geoff’s pinched face under Sokolov’s elbow. Geoff meets his gaze and shakes his head almost imperceptibly, as if pondering the same question that’s been on Slackjaw’s mind all along.

Slackjaw looks up at Sokolov and throws up his hands.

“What do you want me to do with it, though?” he asks. “I’m not a politician. I’m not an assassin. I have some money, but not nearly enough to be a match to either of those women.”

> The three-eyed bird throws back its head and laughs, the sound of it like gunshots and clashing swords, like the deadly hiss of electricity turning people into ash.

Sokolov shakes his head, dropping down into a low squat, resting his elbows on his thighs and hiding his face in his hands. “Don’t you get it yet, you damn fool?” he asks. There’s no bite to his tone anymore, he sounds tired and desperate.

> ‘A truth,’ the three-eyed bird screeches, looking straight into Slackjaw’s soul. ‘A truth for the Prince.’

Slackjaw frowns, looking from Sokolov’s narrow shoulders shaking in silent laughter, to Corvo, staring blankly through the balcony door, to Curnow’s wide, confused eyes, and finally to Daud, who shrugs, waving a gloved hand in the air.

“They believe, and my background check confirms it, that you’re Vsevolod’s son,” he says simply.

Slackjaw snorts.

He’s the only one who does.

"Look," he says, biting down on his lip to keep from laughing. "Look, I don't know who sired me," he says after a moment, turning the locket between his fingers. Geoff looks at him with gentle compassion and, gods, does Slackjaw want to kiss him. "Coulda been a worker, coulda been a convict, coulda been a prince, why the fuck not," he agrees, shrugging. "It don't matter, though, because a bastard from a whore has no claim to anythin’ anyway."

Sokolov stands up slowly, his joints creaking like old trees in the wind. He winces painfully, until his knees straighten and lock with a loud crunch.

"We have a reason to believe that you are not a bastard, though," he says, his eyes dead sober.

Slackjaw looks into them, waiting for Sokolov to laugh, but the laughter never comes.

He shakes his head, chuckling.

"That makes no sense," he points out. "Come on, man, you can't believe I'm actually— that's jus' ridiculous."

Sokolov takes a deep, wheezing breath. "There's an easy way to see if there's any truth to that story," he says with hunger in his eyes. "Look, I'll be the first to admit that it sounds like a crock of shit. A long-lost full-blood Prince hidden away in Dunwall's criminal underworld? I don't know how Corvo even got that idea."

Slackjaw shoots a look at the Royal Protector, who presses his lips shut and looks away, curling the fingers of his right hand over the back of his left, covered in an elaborate criss-cross of black fabric.

> Corvo closing his left fist and disappearing. Daud, Thomas, Granny Rags closing their left fists and turning into green, green, and smokey black.

Slackjaw smirks. The Outsider sure sounds like one compulsive liar.

"Daud started digging into it, and what he pieced together makes far more sense than it should," Sokolov continues, his eyes fixed on Slackjaw's face. "But stories are one thing, they can be absurd, they can be convincing, it doesn't matter against the cold hard facts of science."

Slackjaw narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asks slowly, because Sokolov has a certain reputation and Slackjaw doesn’t exactly feel like being cut into ribbons for betterment of the world or whatever other high and mighty explanation the natural philosophers use these days.

"If you really are Vsevolod and Anna's son, your blood will confirm it," Sokolov says, leaning close and verifying Slackjaw’s suspicions about his beard. It stinks. "I just need a sample and a few days, and we shall have all the answers."

"How much is a sample?" Slackjaw grinds out. Blood is better than a leg or a kidney, but still, he’d rather not lose too much of it. His limited medical knowledge suggests that blood is rather important.

Sokolov fishes a small vial out of his pocket. "About this much," he says. "It will hardly leave a bruise.”

Slackjaw lets out a sigh. He might as well do it and get them to get off his back, right?

"Fine," he mutters, rolling up his sleeve. "Do what you want."

It's a surprisingly clean and simple process, as it turns out. Sokolov presses his cold, bony fingers into the crook of Slackjaw's arm, rubs it with some alcohol-soaked cotton, and finally stabs a needle into his vein. It doesn't hurt, even as he draws the blood into the syringe and then yanks the contraption from under Slackjaw's skin.

"I shall get to work right away," Sokolov says, pressing another piece of cotton against the bleeding little dot on Slackjaw's forearm. "I'll keep you updated about the progress."

He's gone within a minute, carrying the sealed syringe like something precious yet fragile, leaving Slackjaw alone with Corvo Attano, who cracks another unconvincing smile.

"I'd be very much obliged if you stayed at the Tower until Anton is done with his tests," he says, his tone still airy and painfully fake, and Slackjaw just can't take this shit anymore.

"Come on, Protector," he drawls. "Like you'd let me just walk outta here."

Corvo freezes, his face contorting in a flurry of conflicted emotions. Slackjaw stands up, drawing himself to his full height, looking down at Attano.

"All them fancy phrases, but the choice you's giving me is to be nice and do what I'm told, or do what I'm told, but locked up and drugged. It ain't good to start with threats, Corvo," he chides, clicking his tongue. “It spoils the ambiance.”

"I never threatened you," Corvo says softly, with just the slightest hint of an edge to it, taking a step back, the fingers of his left hand curling, ready to call upon the Outsider.

"Oh yeah? I was under the impression." Slackjaw laughs. Corvo’s too soft to attack him, anyway. "You know, Daud in my office, draggin' me up the cliffs so that no one sees where I’ve gone to, you with those fancy phrases and this fake-ass tone. Gives a man ideas."

Corvo forces a pale smile, his chest rising in shallow breath as he moves his right hand to rest on the hilt of his strange folding sword.

"You coulda simply sent a man to me," Slackjaw says, not so much as flinching, looking deep into Corvo's eyes with genuine disappointment. "Said: 'Listen, Slackjaw, I need to have a talk with ya'. I woulda come," he says, leaning just the tiniest bit forward. "You saved my life, Corvo, and so I owe you. Remember what I said back then? Name your price and I’ll pay it. In money or in blood, that is up to you."

Corvo lets go off his sword and he at least has enough decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, Slackjaw,” he rasps and this time he sounds more like the man who saved Slackjaw from the witch of his childhood nightmares. “It’s just that if anyone finds out… I’m not good at this,” he admits, closing his eyes and rubbing the base of his nose. “All the sneaky politics, the espionage. And—.”

He breaks off, his cheek twitching in a sudden grimace of old anger and pain.

Slackjaw sighs.

Corvo has been betrayed one too many times, of course he doesn’t trust anyone, let alone a known criminal like Slackjaw. Not when it’s his daughter’s life and wellbeing that are at stake.

“Let’s put it behind us, shall we,” Slackjaw says amicably, holding out a hand. Corvo looks at it for a second, but shakes it eventually, the expression on his face strange. “Now, what exactly is your plan?” Slackjaw asks, sitting down on the armrest of his chair. He hopes for an honest answer this time.

Corvo licks his lips. “You need to stay here for the time being,” he says, there’s no more forced politeness to his voice, now it’s just pleading. “At least until Anton’s done with his tests.”

Slackjaw cracks a smile. “I mean, if the alternative is going down with Daud, then I’d much rather stay here anyway,” he jokes, making Thomas snort softly.

Corvo doesn’t smile, turning to Curnow, intead. “Maybe I’m paranoid,” he says slowly. “Maybe there’s nothing to worry about. But I’d rather be safe than sorry. I want you to act as his Royal Protector, at least for now. Could you do it?”

It speaks volumes that Corvo, who no longer trusts anyone, feels confident enough in Curnow to ask him for help in a matter as sensitive as keeping the Empire from breaking into a war.

Geoff swallows, casting a quick glance at Slackjaw, and then nods.

Corvo sighs audibly, relief unmistakable in his voice. “Thank you, Geoff, I really appreciate it,” he says, lifting a hand to his chest. “I believe it would be best to station the two of you here, since it’s the most secure part of the Tower, and—”

“And the most suspicious, as well,” Curnow cuts in. “I beg your pardon, Corvo, but the servants will start gossiping if you order deliveries of food and drink to the part of the building where no one lives.”

Corvo winces, scratching at his left hand, under the black fabric. “What do you suggest, then?” he asks, not even trying to argue.

Curnow stands up, face set, eyes bright. He’s a good strategist and commander, and it’s nice to see him put it in use. Slackjaw doesn’t really get to see that, normally.

“One of the guest suites on the second floor will do,” Geoff says, cracking his knuckles. “The blue one is probably the best choice. Easy to defend, should anything happen, and it has its own dumbwaiter, if I remember correctly? That means none of the kitchen staff would actually see—” he pauses, looking at Slackjaw with a brief smirk, “well, His Grace.”

Slackjaw snorts into his fist. Even Corvo cracks a tiny smile.

“Right,” he says, rubbing his nose pensively. “It’s quite a small apartment, though.”

Slackjaw is pretty sure that won’t be an issue. But he doesn’t say anything.

Curnow shrugs oh-so-casually. “I spent most of my life in the barracks, I’m used to cramped spaces. Give me a cot to sleep on and I’ll be fine. His Grace can take the bedroom,” he adds, giving Slackjaw a long, searing look.

“That is extremely kind of you, Lord Protector,” Slackjaw replies, touching the locket on his chest and bowing his head exaggeratedly. “Corvo, may I please at least ask for a proper eiderdown for my loyal guardsman? I’d hate to see him inconvenienced.”

Corvo’s mouth twitches as he closes his eyes. “I shall see to it,” he assures. “I’ll send you a message once everything is ready. And, Daud, in the meantime— Void, I hate when he does this.”

Daud and his little Whaler are gone.

**ii.**

It’s an elaborate game of pretend after that — they lock eyes and exchange jabs, dancing around each other like fencers trying to get a feel of their opponent.

It seems unnecessary, now that they’re alone, but Geoff is still stiff and controlled, he’s still _General Curnow_ , and there’s not a shadow of a smile on his face as he casts glances at a screen that looks like one of Sokolov’s inventions.

Slackjaw has seen enough of Sokolov’s creations in his life to understand the danger, so he plays along, acting merely amused or vaguely threatening, even though he yearns to touch Geoff, _talk_ to him.

There’s no doubt that Corvo will find a way to coerce Slackjaw into working for him sooner or later. He’s desperate, he needs leverage, and he won’t give up until he finds a weakness he can use. But Slackjaw won’t thrust a weapon into his hand, won’t let Corvo use Geoff against him.

So he waits for what feels like forever, until a coded message arrives, allowing them to leave the safe room at the very last.

Geoff leads the way, his back perfectly straight, the line of his shoulders painfully tense. Though it’s only been a few months since he’s been appointed the Commander of the Royal Guard, he already knows the Tower like the back of his hand, picking his path through this maze with ease.

They walk past the lift without stopping and Slackjaw barely holds back a sigh of relief. He’s never been this elated to use the stairs, feel his muscles working, his joints moving.

Geoff chooses his way carefully, checking every corner, as if he expected to run into someone, be it an assassin or a maid, but the Tower’s corridors and passages are all deserted and eerily quiet, nothing but walls covered in silk tapestries, windows hidden behind heavy, richly coloured curtains, marble floors lined with soft carpets that muffle their steps.

Slackjaw is a man of expensive tastes, he can understand and appreciate putting money into interior decor, but this— this is just excessive; it’s a waste of space and money that could’ve been used to do some good instead. It makes him sick to his stomach.

By the time they finally get to their new temporary apartment, he can no longer hold back a grimace of contempt.

“Children are starving in the streets,” he spits out, once Geoff has locked the door behind them and hidden the key in one of his pockets. “It costs an arm and leg just to see a doctor. Most kids from poor families can’t read. And they just blow their money on tacky decor.”

Geoff sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping and somehow that’s all it takes to transform him from General Curnow into Slackjaw’s Geoff, the tired, bitter man with a heart of gold. “Welcome to the noble circles of Dunwall,” he says. “Isn’t it lovely?”

They look at each other and both chuckle in a strange, almost teary way, before Geoff flings his arms around Slackjaw’s neck and, gods, he feels so good, so familiar and safe, so perfect, when he presses against Slackjaw, who can only close him in a tight, desperate embrace and sigh because this is exactly what he wants in life — just Geoff, right next to him, _with_ him — and it’s exactly what he cannot have, because Geoff has worked so hard for his position, for all the influence he now has, and he won’t just give it up to run away with a crime lord, why would he.

“Are you alright?” Geoff asks, running his fingers through Slackjaw’s hair.

Slackjaw only laughs breathlessly, pressing his face into the crook of Geoff’s neck. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I’m just— glad to see you, is all.”

He expects a chuckle, a teasing comment in response. Geoff swallows hard, hugging him tighter, instead. “Me too,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

It hurts to hear the longing in it, the very same longing that plagues Slackjaw’s days and dreams. It hurts to realise that they’re making each other miserable in the long run. That what was supposed to be a little Fugue affair has gotten out of hand and turned into something much greater, something that neither of them knows how to control.

There are words, crawling up Slackjaw’s throat, words that are better left unsaid, so he forces them back down by taking Geoff’s face in his hands and — _finally_ — kissing him. And Geoff kisses back with the desperation of a drowning man gasping for breath, fingers curled into Slackjaw’s shirt, nails digging into his chest, eyelids squeezed shut so tight it almost looks painful. It’s as if he’s trying to force some words down as well, and that’s when Slackjaw realises —

They have both fallen hard for each other.

And they’re too scared to admit it, so instead they kiss until they’re out of breath, and then Geoff lets go of him, stepping back and frantically checking every corner of their new apartment, as if he expected to find some spying device or perhaps an actual spy lurking in the shadows.

Slackjaw watches him in silence, his throat constricted, almost aching, and when Geoff faces him again, shaking his head and relaxing his shoulders once more, Slackjaw simply points to the cot tucked into the corner of the sitting room, just to avoid talking about that sudden display of panic.

“He really got you an eiderdown,” he says, making Geoff snort. And then, “Why did you pick this suite?”

Geoff bites down on his lip, shrugging. “It’s high up, facing the river. No one can get in through the rooftops. The only way in is through all the corridors and stairs, and for that, you’d need some exceptional skills and knowledge of this place.” He pauses, wringing his fingers, and looking away. “They had to change the lock recently and there’s only one key,” he adds, patting the pocket where he put it. “There’s no attic access. No one can get in unless we let them.”

Slackjaw nods slowly, frowning. “You think someone might try to attack me?” he asks. It sounds awfully casual and he’s not surprised to see Geoff wince and close his eyes in response.

“No,” Geoff says, his tone strained. “I just don’t want anyone to walk in on us and—” He lets out a sigh, long and shaky, his shoulders slumping further down. “I don’t want anyone to know,” he says, boring into some minor detail of the carpet. “I don’t want to lose all that I’ve worked for.”

Slackjaw nods again, because what else can he do, really, what is he supposed to say to that? Geoff makes perfect sense, no one should find out about them, especially not here, in this nest of vipers. It’s in Slackjaw’s best interest, as well. And yet it hurts, for some reason, hurts more than he expected it to.

He clears his throat, waiting for Geoff to look up. When he does, his eyes are dark with guilt. “Do you want to take the cot, then?” Slackjaw asks quietly, forcing a smile. “It’s okay, if you do. I get that.”

Geoff shakes his head, pinching his brows close together, stepping towards Slackjaw. “I don’t,” he says, taking Slackjaw by the hand and pressing it to his chest. “Do you want me to?”

Slackjaw smiles in earnest, his fingers flexing in Geoff’s grip, sliding under the jacket of his uniform, where he can feel Geoff’s heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I thought you were supposed to be my Protector,” he says, winking. “What if there are monsters under my bed?”

Geoff snorts softly and then kisses Slackjaw again. And again. And again as they stumble towards the bed, discarding their clothes along the way.

“I missed you,” Geoff sighs once Slackjaw has him pinned to the ornate, blue bed-covers, and Slackjaw has to kiss him quiet, because it’s things like this that have him falling for Geoff, believing that this thing between them is something more, something deeper. But it isn’t, it’s just a holiday fling, a little spice snuck into their boring, bland lives. Nothing more than that.

“I missed you so much,” Geoff repeats stubbornly, his voice breaking, his eyes the colour of Wrenhaven on a sunny spring day, his fingertips sliding across Slackjaw’s mouth and then into his hair. “And I wish— I really wish I could just— be with you,” Geoff whispers, so softly it’s barely audible.

And the worst part is that he means it.

“It’s alright,” Slackjaw says, even though it isn’t, even though it hurts, and kisses Geoff again. And again, and again, until neither of them tries to speak anymore, until their words melt into sighs and moans, and breathless little prayers.

Slackjaw has never felt so desperate.

> Three green eyes, countless emerald teeth soaked in hot, red blood.
> 
> ‘Bleed for me, my Prince,’ the three-eyed god whispers, its voice like a snare drum. ‘Hurt for me, my Prince, and I shall forge you a crown out of your pain.’

⬩

They spend the rest of the morning in bed, cuddled into each other, but further apart than ever before, and Slackjaw finds it hard to breathe, his chest aching every time it expands. He wants out — out of this situation, out of this gilded cage Corvo put him in, out of this Voidforsaken country.

The dumbwaiter’s bell sounds like a blessing, offering some respite. They sit down with their lunch in complete silence, not looking at one another, but relax gradually, exchanging comments on the potatoes (mushy), the rabbit (overcooked), and the sauce (bland), which is as good a topic for conversation as any — decidedly easier than their feelings or their future, anyway — so they stick to it, joking about the Gristolian cuisine and how very disappointing the Tower’s cooks are. It almost feels like their first Fugue all over again — a little tense, but a lot more comfortable than either of them expected.

At least until Geoff fixes his eyes on his plate and says,

“I wonder what Sokolov’s tests will tell.”

Slackjaw scoffs. “That it’s all bullshit,” he replies. “What else?”

Geoff carefully chews on a piece of meat with an odd expression on his face. “Daud seemed pretty convinced,” he says eventually, scrunching his nose as he speaks the Knife’s name. “And Sokolov himself said that this story made sense. I mean, maybe…”

“Listen,” Slackjaw says, a little too sharply, putting down his fork. He’s no longer hungry. “As I said before — maybe my father was some prince, who the fuck knows. But I knew my mother, Geoff. She wasn’t no princess.”

Geoff’s face softens as he reaches out to touch Slackjaw’s hand. “You were a child when you lost her,” he says. “Maybe she didn’t get to tell you the whole story? Maybe she managed to escape with you and—”

He stops short when Slackjaw takes his hand and squeezes it hard.

“Do you know how it all went down?” Slackjaw says, his voice lower and darker than he intends.

> A fury of emerald feathers soaked in blood. Taste of copper in his mouth. Thick clouds of smoke rising above the posh districts. Statues falling and breaking into pieces. Banners, as red as blood on the hands that carry them. A shriek — of a woman, of a bird, of a country.
> 
> ‘Can you hear it, my sweet Prince?’ the three-eyed bird asks. ‘Can you hear your motherland’s pain? I shall forge you a throne out of it. I shall forge you a destiny.’

Geoff shakes his head, lips parting in a silent gasp, pupils shrinking. Slackjaw loosens his grip on Geoff’s hand, his fingers stiff and curled like talons of an ancient beast.

“They came in through the front door,” he says and he cannot recognise his voice or his accent, the clipped vowels and softened consonants, the melody of it, “they came in two rows of seven, with knives in their hands and blood on their minds. They came and killed everyone they found on their way — maids and cooks, teachers and tailors. They painted the house red, they filled it with screams. And when they found the Princess and her two little daughters, they said it was the people’s will that guided their knives. And once they were done, they dragged the bodies all the way to Dabokva and hoisted them on the stakes. ‘Look,’ they said to the people. ‘Look what we did for you.’ And the people looked, for long weeks, until slabs of rotting flesh began to fall down, until the people’s eyes watered from the stench, because those who did not look, died or disappeared; because those, who did not do as they were told, were no longer the people, but public enemies.”

Geoff swallows and maybe it’s the familiarity of this sound, or the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing that snaps Slackjaw back to reality. He blinks and clears his throat, pressing his fingers against Geoff’s wrist, just to make sure he still has control over his body, that it’s still _him_ and not someone — some _thing_ — else.

“I knew my mother,” he says and this time his voice sounds normal, it’s coarse, like gravel, his accent an elaborate parody. “She was just a whore.”

Geoff doesn’t say a thing, only giving Slackjaw’s hand a gentle squeeze, his face open and honest, and so very familiar, and Slackjaw is glad to have him here, even for a short time, for yet another Fugue.

⬩

When Corvo knocks on the door a few hours later, Slackjaw is missing his undershirt, and Geoff’s jacket is buttoned crookedly, but the bed is made so impeccably you could bounce a coin off the covers, and Corvo doesn’t seem to suspect a thing.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing alright,” he says, rubbing his cheek in an awkward, self-conscious gesture and looking around the room, as if expecting to find some evidence of a fight.

“So far, so good. We haven’t killed each other yet,” Slackjaw says, crossing his legs and sticking out his bottom lip in an innocent pout.

Geoff scratches on his nose to hide a grin.

Corvo clears his throat. “Right,” he mutters. “I’m glad to see that. Do you need anything?”

Slackjaw sighs, crossing his arms behind his head, and realising too late that the top buttons of his shirt are open and he’s exposing way more bare chest than advisable. “I need to see my people and make sure they know what to do in my absence, but I don’t suppose you’ll let me, eh?” he asks, with just enough venom to draw attention away from his missing undershirt.

Corvo, as expected, looks away with guilt written all over the curve of his mouth and back hunching under the weight of his conscience. Slackjaw almost feels sorry for him, but then remembers that Corvo is trying to use him for his personal agenda.

“I’d really appreciate it, if you could send someone to fetch a few changes of clothes for me,” Geoff says, right before the silence grows too heavy and dangerous.

Corvo perks up immediately.

“Of course, I’ll have clothes delivered to the both of you by dinner,” he assures. “I’m so sorry I haven’t thought of that.”

Geoff thanks politely, while Slackjaw only acknowledges this promise with a wave of a hand.

“Speaking of dinner,” he says, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been really into Serkonan food lately. A lot easier to digest, I find. You think you could get someone to cook some of that for me?”

Corvo looks at him with a surprised, almost wary expression on his face, and for a second Slackjaw wonders if he’ll actually connect the dots this time. He doesn’t.

“Sure,” he says, eventually, smiling almost earnestly. “I’ll tell the cooks.”

Slackjaw bows his head and touches his chest in exaggerated gratitude, and then there’s silence, again, stretching unbearably, until Corvo clears his throat, forces another smile and says,

“I’ll see you when Anton is finished with his tests, I suppose? Emily, I mean, the Empress is awfully busy these days and I need to— If anything comes up or you need anything, please feel free to send me a message.”

And then he leaves, back hunched, mouth pursed, brow furrowed.

When Slackjaw first met him, Corvo was a paragon of virtue. He was a man Slackjaw wished to be. And it’s not that he lost his moral compass along the way, not really. He just learned to push through the guilt and do what has to be done, despite his qualms. He became just like Slackjaw — yet another criminal with good intentions, choosing what’s profitable, rather than right. It’s sad to see.

“You don’t give a damn about Serkonan food,” Geoff says after a moment, breaking the tense silence Corvo left behind.

Slackjaw smirks, shrugging. “Yeah, but you like it,” he says.

He has no words to describe just how soothing it is to see Geoff roll his eyes in response.

“That’s so sweet of you,” Geoff cooes, dropping the key onto the table and moving his hands up to open his crookedly buttoned jacket. “I hope you don’t expect me to thank you on my knees, though,” he says, shrugging it off right onto the floor, looking straight into Slackjaw’s eyes.

It’s a simple thing that Geoff did many times, but it’s still dreadfully efficient at shortening Slackjaw’s breath and quickening his pulse. “That’s a very tempting idea,” he says, shifting in his seat, leaning toward Geoff, who smirks in that wonderful, wicked way. “But I might have a better one,” Slackjaw adds, reaching out, inviting Geoff to come closer.

He does, slowly, maintaining the eye contact and there’s something almost cat-like about him in that moment, some grace and sleekness that should be impossible to achieve in a Royal Guard’s uniform and those uggly-ass boots.

“So?” Geoff asks, once he’s close enough to brush his fingers through Slackjaw’s hair. “What’s your master plan?”

Slackjaw grins, tilting his head a little to the side, allowing Geoff’s hand to slide down the side of his neck. He takes a moment to savour this feather-light, almost teasing touch, and then grabs Geoff by the belt loops, pulling him down into his lap.

“How about this?” he asks, dragging his nose along Geoff’s jaw and to his ear.

“Interesting,” Geoff purrs, shifting his hips just enough to draw a strangled groan from Slackjaw. “Certainly more comfortable than the floor.”

And then things take their usual course. Their lips meet in a slow, heated kiss, as they shed their clothes, piece by piece — Geoff’s trousers getting stuck at his knees because of his ridiculous fucking boots, which makes Slackjaw laugh a lot harder than it should. It’s familiar and comfortable — the laughter, the taste of Geoff’s skin, his weight as he sits in Slackjaw’s lap, the way he touches Slackjaw, driving him slowly but surely to the edge and then keeping him there for a moment with that little smug smirk curling his lips, the way his breath hitches right before he comes, and how he spends a long while afterwards with his forehead pressed into Slackjaw’s collarbone, back rounded and shoulders truly relaxed for once. Slackjaw trails his fingers up and down Geoff’s spine, nosing against his neck, muttering soft little nothings, trying to not think about the future and instead savour the moment at hand and the fact that come morning, no bells will toll.

⬩

Five days pass and they don’t need to part ways on a cold and foggy morning. There’s no bells, spare for the dumbwaiter announcing another feat of Serkonan cuisine, no set end date for their little mid-year fling.

They spend most of their time between bed, bath, and dining table, in various states of undress, still not quite satiated, still needing more of each other, but the first, ravenous hunger is gone and they slow down, getting a little more creative, a little more daring, a lot more tender in their lovemaking.

In the meantime they find a collection of books about Tyvia that Corvo left, presumably for Slackjaw, and that Geoff pretty much devours, asking questions here and there, whenever he finds something unclear. Slackjaw somehow knows all the answers and he cannot tell whether he’s heard them from his mother back when he was a boy, or it’s the Many-Eyed Bird prompting them to him. He supposes that either way it’s strange, but Geoff doesn’t seem to mind, hungry for knowledge, eager to learn something new about the world.

There are moments when he asks about something and his eyes light up with curiosity, a desire to experience the world, and Slackjaw feels a pang of foolish hope, until he sees Geoff carefully hanging up his uniform or polishing his boots a while later, and he remembers just how hard Geoff worked for all this and how unlikely he’s to give it up.

These are the moments he spends turning the locket between his fingers and thinking of the one-eyed bird, wondering if a god could save him from heartbreak, the moments when he feels more alone than ever before.

**iii.**

They’re just finishing an early lunch when the dumbwaiter’s bell rings for the second time in an hour. Geoff stiffens momentarily, and then takes a deep breath, standing up from the table.

He opens the dumbwaiter and picks up the small piece of paper inside, holding it tight in fingers that shake just the tiniest bit, while he reads the message, his frown deepening by second.

“Sokolov’s back with the results,” Geoff says, his tone perfectly blank.

It’s been over a week since Slackjaw got dragged here by Daud, a time thrice longer than any Fugue, but not nearly long enough. He wonders if anything less than the rest of his days with Geoff would ever be enough. He’s almost sure it wouldn’t.

“We’ll see each other over Fugue, right?” he asks, pressing his palms against the table and slowly hoisting himself up.

Geoff winces for just a second, before pulling himself together and nodding. “Of course,” he says, cracking a pale, humorless smile. “I can’t wait.”

His voice breaks at the last word and that’s when it hits Slackjaw — they have another seven months to go before the Fugue, another half a year before they see each other again, and, gods, he can’t do it anymore, he can’t live from one holiday to the next, hoping that those few days here and there can sustain him. But he can’t force himself to choke out anything along the lines of ‘we should stop seeing each other’, either, because he’s hopelessly in love.

So he only kisses Geoff one more time — slowly and sweetly — before straightening his back and mustering a smirk that could fool anyone. Anyone but Geoff.

“Let’s go,” Slackjaw says briskly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Geoff takes a deep breath through his nose and nods, taking the key out of his pocket and unlocking the door. He steps outside of their little apartment and immediately he’s General Curnow — a calm, collected officer, an absolute professional, who doesn’t so much as glance at Slackjaw, following him without a sound, his legs infinitely heavy.

⬩

The scene they find in the safe room is nearly identical to the one they’ve seen the last time. It reminds Slackjaw of a dollhouse — the only thing that ever changes being the position of the dolls.

Sokolov sits in the same chair he occupied the last time, but now he’s awfully pale, which only brings out the bags under his eyes and the sickly yellowish undertone of his skin. His legs are crossed, one foot moving up and down in the air in uneven intervals, fingers tapping at the armrest of his chair. He doesn’t have a drink at hand. In fact, he looks unusually sober. It’s this part that fills Slackjaw with dread.

Corvo’s standing against a wall, this time, but despite his best efforts he cannot muster even a semblance of casualness. His breath is shallow, face tense, eyes wide open, right hand brushing against the hilt of his sword. Slackjaw knows this gesture well — he, too, tends to reach for his cleaver in search of comfort.

Daud and Thomas are the only ones who seem perfectly relaxed — the Knife sat on a low sofa, resting his cheek on a hand, his expression perfectly blank, but eyes cold and alert, as always. Thomas stands right behind him, upper back flush against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk curling his beautiful lips. These two are nothing but spectators here. Lucky bastards. Slackjaw wishes he could swap places with either of them.

Geoff lets out a quiet breath, taking a quick look around, and then perches in the same armchair he sat in last time, his posture oddly stiff, his mouth pressed into the thinnest of lines. Slackjaw tries to not look at him as he slumps into a chair opposite him, allowing himself one deep sigh, before he glances up at Sokolov and asks,

“So? Can I go home already?”

Sokolov laughs in response, hiding his face in his hands for a brief moment. There’s a high-pitched note of hysteria to his laughter, something that reminds Slackjaw of a freaked-out bird. He doesn’t like this connotation.

“Depends on what you mean by home, I suppose,” Sokolov says eventually, his voice a tad shaky. “Bottle Street? I don’t think so. Tyvia? Very soon, Your Grace.”

Slackjaw snorts, rubbing his cheek with an open palm that he wishes he could just bang on a table instead. There’s no table near him, though. “Be serious,” he says. “I’m fucken tired of this shit. I’m a criminal, Sokolov. A son of a whore. Nothin’ more than that.”

Sokolov takes a deep breath that rattles in his chest. “I won’t argue with the first part,” he says, his tone lacking its usual sharpness. “But the whore that brought you up was not your mother, Slackjaw. I mean, Your Grace.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Science doesn’t lie,” he continues, pulling himself together, slipping back into his teacher’s persona. “You’re Prince Vsevolod and Princess Anna’s son, there’s no doubt about it.”

Slackjaw lets out a deep sigh, anger building up in his chest, anger that they’re all acting as if it were some sort of a fairy-tale in the making and not a national tragedy, one of the darkest pages in the history of the Empire.

“You were in Tyvia then,” he barks, looking into Sokolov’s sullen face. “You saw them impaled. You know no one survived that slaughter in Samara. How dare you spew bullshit like this. Have you no respect?”

He hardly recognises his accent, his voice doesn’t sound like his own. His heart flutters in his chest, faster than it ought to, a human heart has no right to beat this fast.

Sokolov swallows thickly, his bottom lip trembling, eyes glassy, and he looks very old and frail all of a sudden. “It’s all in your blood,” he whispers, leaning forward, clasping his hands together. They shake anyway, he has to squeeze them between his knees to keep them still. “I would never make something like this up. Never.”

The last word is spat through gritted teeth, a desperate oath that makes Slackjaw shudder. But it makes no sense, it makes no fucking sense, because he knows history, he knows how it all went down and the idea of him being a miraculous survivor of that bloodbath is just ridiculous. There were no survivors. Slackjaw is nothing but another mudlark and criminal, a child of a Tyvian whore born into the dirty streets of Dunwall.

“The woman that raised you came to Dunwall on a boat from Dabokva,” Daud says, his voice void of any emotion, dry and factual, a jarring contrast to Sokolov’s. “You were on that boat with her, about three months old at the time.”

Slackjaw’s mouth falls open as he shakes his head. He wasn’t born here, in Dunwall?

> ‘Come, my child,’ the three-eyed bird says, its eyes green like the sea, bottomless. ‘Come see the truth.’
> 
> Slackjaw looks and sees two rows of men walking into the royal dacha. He sees maids screaming and blood splashing onto the walls. He sees his mother — his nurse — hugging a baby into her chest, crawling into an old wardrobe, falling onto her knees and whispering frantic prayers to the Many-Eyed God, prayers to please, _please_ keep at least the little Prince safe, to let him live. He sees the five-eyed bird spreading its black wings to hide the woman and the child, leaning over them and humming the ancient song of fate and destiny drowning out the sound of a slaughter. He sees his mother leaving the closet long, long hours later, the baby still at her chest, too scared to make a sound. He sees her making her way through the country, all the way to Dabokva, where she looks at the three impaled bodies of her beloved Princesses — Anna, Alyona, and Elena. He sees her trying to hide her tears as she gets herself and the baby a one-way trip to Gristol paid for with her body. He sees her struggling to find a job in Dunwall, because no one needs a worker with a child this small and helpless. He sees Lucretia, young and beautiful, looking upon his mother with a smile. ‘Come, girl,’ she says. ‘We can make it work somehow.’ And, ‘What’s the baby’s name?’ His mother, brushing the brown curls from the baby’s forehead. ‘Aleksandr. Sasha.’
> 
> And then the bird again — three green eyes, one the shade of the sea, one the shade of emeralds, one the shade of Tyvian steppes; teeth soaked in blood, feathers like a forest basked in the morning sun.
> 
> ‘Do you remember your name, my Prince?’ it asks in the voice of Slackjaw’s mother — his nurse — and Slackjaw does. It’s Sasha. Aleksandr.
> 
> ‘Do you remember your pain, my Prince?’ the three-eyed bird asks, its voice a high-pitched wail of an orphaned child, of seven year old Sasha refusing to let go of his mother, even though he knows she’s gone, that he’s all alone now, small and scrawny, and unready to face the world on his own. It’s the breaking voice of a teenager who wants nothing but to be accepted and respected, but who’s the butt of the joke, the Tyvian bastard that doesn’t belong, that will never make Dunwall respect him. It’s the voice of a young man accused of sleeping his way up the criminal underworld, a man called Black Sally’s boy-toy. The voice of a man meeting a watchman who sweeps him off his feet, but who’s utterly unattainable.
> 
> The three-eyed bird smiles, its teeth countless and sharp, its feathered fingers holding up a crown — a beautiful, intricate thing of Tyvian ore and bloody rubies. ‘I forged you a crown out of your pain, my sweet Prince,’ the bird trills, placing it on Slackjaw’s head. The weight of it makes him bend his neck and fall to his knees, but it feels right, like it belongs there, like he was born to wear it.
> 
> ‘Do you remember your motherland’s pain, my Prince?’ the three-eyed bird asks, its feathers green as mold, as moss growing over the ruins, as rotting flesh. And Slackjaw remembers, he _feels_ the pain of his country, the land split open in search of ore, precious stones and salt, its steppes burned to build roads across them, its forests uprooted because the Emperors in Gristol want wood. He feels the pain of the convicts in the camps, slowly starving on their meagre rations. The pain of his mother — his nurse — watching her Princesses dead and desecrated. The pain of his royal mother watching her children die, and his sisters, murdered before they had a chance to taste life. The pain of the people flogged by Kalin’s regime. The pain of the people of Tyvia choking on fear, always on the lookout for the black masks of the Operators.
> 
> Soft feathers brushing against his neck, filling his nostrils with the stench of decay and blood, pressing under his chin, forcing him to look up at a throne made of metal and wood, lined with scarlet silk. ‘There, my Prince,’ the three-eyed god whispers, ‘I forged you a throne out of your motherland’s pain.’
> 
> The god’s feathers are like the wind against his skin, yet stronger than metal shackles. Slackjaw rises to his feet and steps towards his throne, guided by the bird, who’s a woman, who’s a forest and a steppe, who has Geoff’s tender smile.
> 
> Slackjaw sits down in his throne and the crown feels weightless all of a sudden. He straightens his spine, pulls his shoulder blades together, holds his head up high, his chest filling with the scent of a dry, sun-warmed steppe, of orchards full of ripe pears, of pine needles and resin, of smoked tea on a rainy evening. Nothing has ever felt more right than this.
> 
> ‘Look, my Prince,’ the three-eyed god says, its voice like a blade cutting through the night, its wings heavy on Slackjaw’s shoulders. ‘I forged you a destiny,’ it says, its silver beak pointing into a series of paintings. Slackjaw looks at them, but sees nothing but specks of colour, he can’t make out people, he can’t make out events. ‘Now it’s your time to shape it,’ the three-eyed god says, its voice is Slackjaw’s own, down to the ridiculous accent he’s adapted just to stand out from the other criminals of Dunwall. ‘It’s time you choose your path, Sasha.’

“Slackjaw.”

It’s Corvo, leaning forward, chest heaving in a rapid, uneven breath, brows drawn low over his wide-open eyes.

“Yeah?” Slackjaw rasps. His tongue feels heavy and dry, uncooperative.

“Are you… alright?” Corvo asks, slumping back against the wall, visibly relieved. Slackjaw can’t understand why.

“Yes,” he replies, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Corvo casts a quick, almost panicked look at Sokolov, whose eyes are narrowed to tiny slits, shoulders rounded, body tilted forward. He looks like a very old, very hungry cat getting ready to pounce on its prey.

“What did you see?” Sokolov asks, his voice trembling. “Was it the Void, the Outsider?” he insists when Slackjaw shakes his head. “Tell me,” he says, switching to Tyvian that Slackjaw somehow still understands, even though he hasn’t heard it in over thirty years. “You must tell me.”

> The three-eyed god laughs through Slackjaw’s mouth, its wings brushing against Slackjaw’s temples, against the crown on his head.

“There is nothing I _must_ do, Royal Physician,” Slackjaw says in Tyvian that rolls off his tongue as effortlessly as if he’s been speaking it his whole life. “And tell me, why would a pagan god commune with me, the Prince of Tyvia, the son of the Many-Eyed Bird?”

Because that’s what he is, what he’s always been. ‘Prince’ has never been a mere term of endearment, it’s always been his title.

Sokolov recoils, as if slapped, eyes widening, mouth hanging open. He moves his jaw a few times, as if trying to say something, but can’t choke out a single sound, instead bowing his head and pressing his right palm to his heaving chest.

Slackjaw dismisses this half-hearted apology with a wave of his hand, turning back to Corvo, who sucks a breath through his teeth, straightening his back, already aware that his plan is getting out of hand, that it might not be him using Slackjaw for his agenda, but the other way around.

“So, Corvo,” Slackjaw purrs, switching back to Gristolian, showing his teeth in a grin. “I believe you had a plan for me.”

Corvo nods and clears his throat, pushing himself off the wall and moving towards the table, his movements stiff, jerky. “As Anton mentioned previously, your political opponents have money, so the imperative is to act fast, before they gather their armies. You have the benefit of surprise, no one knows of your existence yet. If you strike quickly enough, we might be able to keep the commotion to the minimum.”

“Commotion,” Slackjaw echoes and then chuckles. “That is one way to call it. I personally prefer ‘civil war’. Feels more accurate.”

Corvo looks away, his eyes rolling back ever so slightly. “Right. I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not, because it’s not his people that will die. Not his city that will fall. “I believe Dabokva will be the main theatre of this conflict. Luckily for us, it can be reached and attacked from the sea. I can give you—” He trails off when Slackjaw raises an open palm to stop him. “Yes?”

“There’s no ‘us’, Corvo,” Slackjaw says with emphasis, letting it sink in. “I don’t want your warships or your soldiers. I do not intend to attack my own capital from the sea, destroy it like some foreign invader.”

For the first time, he sees anger in Corvo’s warm brown eyes. “You didn’t believe any of it ten minutes ago and now it’s _your_ capital? What a quick change of heart,” he grinds out.

Slackjaw smirks, tilting his head to the side. “Gods tend to have rather convincing arguments,” he says. “You should know,” he adds, glancing at Corvo’s left hand, the black fabric covering it up to the wrist, and then looking back into his face, pale and tense. “I tell you what, Lord Protector,” he continues, baring his teeth in another grin, “I will either do it my way, or I won’t do it at all. The choice is yours.”

Corvo splutters, shaking his head. “So you’ll watch Tyvia bleed, unless you get a free hand? Is that it?” he bites out with so much righteous indignation that Slackjaw can only blow a raspberry in response.

“Tyvia is bleeding anyway, Corvo,” he says. “Kaldwins have been bleeding it dry for as long as they’re on the imperial throne. Kalin has been killing it, piece by piece, ever since his so-called revolution. To me there’s not that much difference between your greed, his cruelty, or a civil war in the name of foolish ideals. The outcome will be the same, ultimately.”

Corvo takes a deep breath, his fingers clasped so tight on the hilt of his sword that they go white, upper teeth bared in a furious snarl. He cannot stand anyone saying a bad word about his beloved Empress and her precious daughter. But he’ll have to suck it up this time.

“I’m your only chance, Corvo,” Slackjaw says, not so much as flinching. He spent most of his life feigning confidence. He’s damn good at it.

It’s true that Corvo needs him to legitimise his actions, make it look like he’s aiding the true heir, rather than upholding a bloody regime. But he must’ve known that Slackjaw wouldn’t just let anyone turn him into a puppet. He couldn’t have gone into it without a plan, knowledge he could use against Slackjaw, forcing him into obedience. That’s why he dragged Daud into this. Daud, who knows that Sally’s still alive. Daud who might know about Slackjaw’s relationship with Geoff, as well.

Slackjaw watches Corvo let go of his sword and grind his teeth, wondering which it will be — Sally or Geoff.

It’s neither.

Corvo looks utterly defeated when he meets Slackjaw’s eyes and hisses, “What is your plan, then, _Your Grace_?”

For a second, Slackjaw is too taken aback to react. He glances at Daud, who meets his eyes, his expression perfectly blank, impossible to decipher. He chuckles, running a hand through his hair, trying to keep calm and collected and not let his surprise show.

“I haven’t had time to really think about it,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll tell you when I make up my mind, Lord Protector.”

Corvo forces a sour grimace. “Very well, Your Grace. I’m looking forward to it.”

**iv.**

Geoff closes the door with a kick, turning to face Slackjaw. The bluish veins on his temples stand out against his ghastly pale skin more than ever.

“What in the Void…?” he sputters. “What— I mean, why—?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, visibly distressed. He takes a deep breath, as if getting ready to speak again, but gives up on that, unable to pick one question from the litany that’s on his mind.

Slackjaw reaches out to touch his arm, it’s meant as a comforting little gesture, but also a test of a sort, because part of him is terrified that Geoff will recoil, refuse to be touched by a madman who claims to commune with gods. Geoff doesn’t, though, he lets Slackjaw’s hand move from his elbow to the small of his back and guide him to the sitting room, where they both perch on the sofa, an arm’s length apart, but at least facing each other.

“I know this sounds wild,” Slackjaw says, rounding his back, wringing his fingers, “but I’ve been dreaming of the gods— the god, the Many-Eyed God, for a while.”

“What— who is that?” Geoff asks, shaking his head again. “I have never— I used to have a lover from Tyvia and he never mentioned—”

He trails off, biting down on his lip, a pink flush spreading over his cheekbones and tips of his ears. Slackjaw reaches out to take Geoff’s hand in his. Geoff lets him, but doesn’t look up.

“It’s an old god,” Slackjaw explains, rubbing small, soothing circles inside Geoff’s palm. “From before Tyvia became part of the Empire. It was outlawed at some point, but there were people who still prayed to it. Like my mother. The one that brought me up, I mean, not the Princess. She used to tell me stories and teach me the prayers. And I prayed to it sometimes, because— I don’t know, I never felt like the Everyman or the Outsider listened. But the Many-Eyed Bird did.”

Geoff meets his gaze at last. His brows are pinched together, mouth pursed. “And, what, it just… talks to you in your sleep?” he asks, his fingers flexing in Slackjaw’s hand, his skin clammy. He looks deeply uncomfortable, scared almost.

“Not just in my dreams,” Slackjaw says, watching Geoff’s pupils shrink, hearing his breath pick up. “Sometimes it’s here, in our world, and sometimes… it’s like I’m there, in its realm,” he says, only to see unbridled panic in Geoff’s eyes.

“That’s— you mean figuratively, right?” Geoff asks, huffing a stifled laugh and pulling his hand out of Slackjaw’s grip.

Slackjaw sucks in a sharp breath, biting down on his lip, hard enough to feel it swell. “You think I’m insane,” he says after a moment, and it’s neither surprised nor accusatory, just disappointed.

Geoff sighs, dropping his head to his chest, curling his fingers into his hair. “I don’t,” he says. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself rather than Slackjaw. “It’s just— I don’t get it, Slackjaw. You never mentioned any of it, not a word about dreams like this, or any gods.”

“ _When_ was I supposed to mention it?” Slackjaw asks, bitterness seeping into his voice. “We see each other for two days a year.”

Geoff lets out a sound that’s dangerously close to a sob and Slackjaw regrets saying anything at all.

“Up there,” Geoff says after a while, jerking his head up to point to the ceiling, “you just— I don’t know, it was _scary_ , like your body was there, but your mind, soul, whatever, it was— _gone_. They called you, but you didn’t react, you just stared ahead with those dead eyes, and—” He looks into Slackjaw’s face, lips trembling, eyes welling up with tears. “And I didn’t have the guts to do _anything_ , I just sat there and watched, as if you were a stranger to me.”

“Geoff,” Slackjaw says softly, touching his face because he doesn’t know what else to say or do.

This time Geoff recoils. “Don’t,” he chokes out. “Don’t say it’s alright when it’s not.” He sobs again, hiding his face in his hands, shaking his head, and Slackjaw wants nothing more than to take him in his arms and say that it will all be fine, that they can figure it out, make it work somehow. “I love you,” Geoff says all of a sudden, face still hidden behind his fingers, voice wet, teary. Slackjaw’s heart stills for a second, his mouth hanging open. “I love you,” Geoff repeats, his voice breaking, “but I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

“You’re not a coward,” Slackjaw opposes, reaching out to pull Geoff’s hands down and brush his lips against the knuckles.

Geoff laughs helplessly, shaking his head once again, closing his fingers over Slackjaw’s so tight it hurts. “I’ve never believed in Abbey’s Everyman,” he says. “Never believed in eternal damnation and all that. All I’ve ever been afraid of was losing my damn job.”

“In this fucking shithole? I’d be afraid, too,” Slackjaw replies, striving for a joke. It doesn’t land. “Doesn’t make you a coward,” he insists. “And I’m glad you didn’t do anything back in that safe room,” he adds after a moment. “I’d be royally fucked, if Corvo knew about us.”

Geoff frowns. “What do you mean?” he asks, and immediately follows it with a soft ‘oh’, when he understands.

“Oh, indeed,” Slackjaw echoes, huffing a bitter little laugh. “So it’s all good, see?” He winks and smiles at Geoff, who lets out a defeated sigh in response, lowering his head onto Slackjaw’s shoulder. “I’m here, I’m fine, and I’m a goddamn prince,” Slackjaw says.

Geoff snorts into his neck. There’s no mirth to it. “Cause a little bird told you so?”

For a second Slackjaw sees the three-eyed god, right behind Geoff, its head thrown back in low, rumbling laughter, its countless, blood-stained teeth gleaming in the soft light of a whale-oil lamp. He blinks, and the bird-god is gone in a flurry of emerald and sea-green.

“It’s not so little,” he says, burying his nose in Geoff’s hair.

⬩

They’re still on the sofa, nestled into each other, when the dumbwaiter’s bell rings, breaking their comfortable silence. Geoff snaps to attention in a split second, eyes darting to the clock. It’s way too early for dinner.

They both flinch, when the metal door creaks. Slackjaw jumps to his feet right away, heart hammering in his chest as he reaches for his cleaver only to realise half-way that he doesn’t have it on him. He leans back and yanks the pistol from Geoff’s holster right when the dumbwaiter opens. Before he can aim, there’s a flash of green and a strong hand closing on his wrist, forcing him to drop the gun.

“Easy, Your Grace,” Daud drawls, smirking. “We don’t want bloodshed, do we?”

Slackjaw huffs, jerking his hand free and collapsing back onto the sofa with a wheezing sigh, landing right next to Geoff, whose eyes move between Daud and the dumbwaiter, round and shocked.

“Couldn’t you just knock on the door, like a normal person?” Slackjaw growls, running his fingers through his hair, trying to slow down his frantic heartbeat. “I thought it was rats or some other witchcraft.”

Daud leans against the dining table, pulling up his gloves and then moving his fingers to adjust the fit. “I don’t think Attano would be very happy to see me here,” he says. “Things are not working out the way he'd like them to.”

Slackjaw is still pissed off, but he can’t not laugh at that. “That’s a big fucking understatement,” he mutters. “Why are you here?”

Daud smiles in a way that’s almost friendly and therefore suspicious. “I thought you might have some questions.”

“I sure do,” Slackjaw admits, rolling back his shoulders and narrowing his eyes. “What’s the catch, though?”

“What if I told you there’s none?” Daud shrugs ever so innocently.

Slackjaw is not buying it. “Nuh-uh,” he says, wagging a finger. “I know you, Knife. You wouldn’t try to help me if you didn’t see some personal gain in it. So, what is it you want? Money? Influence? Someone’s death?”

Daud grins, leaning forward just enough so that he’s eye to eye with Slackjaw. “I just want to piss off a god, that’s all,” he says, spreading his arms dramatically, like a bad prestidigitator.

Geoff chuckles hysterically, collapsing against the back of the sofa and dragging his hands over his face. “Am I the only one who’s not seeing any fucking gods?” he asks, his voice high-pitched, on the verge of breaking. “What are you both on, for the love of—” He curls his fists, breathing through his nose, visibly trying to calm himself down, but to no avail. “Is this why you killed the Empress?” he asks Daud. “Because some _god_ told you to?”

All colour drains from Daud’s face, as he looks at Geoff, his eyes vacant, almost dead.

“No, he did not, Hiram Burrows did,” Daud rasps. “I shouldn’t have agreed. I made a wrong choice. But I can’t take it back.” He lets out a weary sigh. “I tried to make up for it,” he says with some naked honesty that makes Slackjaw’s skin crawl. Geoff is unfazed. “Turns out that some mistakes are impossible to fix.”

“So that’s why you’re working for Corvo now?” Geoff asks, a little softer, but still with an accusatory note.

Daud’s eyes light up, his gaze hardening into cold steel, upper lip twitching. “I don’t work for anyone now,” he grinds out. “I did Attano a favour, because I owed him for sparing my life. I gave him the information he wanted and now we’re even.”

“Right, so he came to you asking for… what exactly?” Geoff asks, rolling his eyes. Slackjaw has never seen him so agitated. “A proof that Slackjaw is a long-lost prince of Tyvia?”

Daud smirks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back. “Funny you should ask,” he says. “That is precisely what he wanted. And that’s precisely what he got.”

And suddenly it all makes sense. Corvo didn’t know of either Sally or Geoff, because he simply never asked; because he assumed that Daud would actually _help_ him, rather than just pay off his debt — and by the time he realised his mistake, it was too late, he already lost all control. He should’ve known better than to make business with criminals without specifying all terms and conditions. He made his bed and now he must lie in it.

“And what do you want?” Slackjaw asks. “Precisely, if you will.”

“I want to help you get your throne back,” Daud says, looking Slackjaw in the eye. He seems dead serious. “In whatever way you might need my help.”

“Why?” Geoff asks, beating Slackjaw to it. “What game are you playing, assassin?”

Daud’s gaze is scorching, his snarl positively terrifying, but Geoff meets it with an equally fierce expression, not at all intimidated. He’s a sight to behold in this moment, fearless and unyielding, with his bright blue eyes and dark hair swept back in a way that brings out the sharpness of his cheekbones, and, gods, Slackjaw is so hopelessly in love with him.

“I’m not an assassin anymore,” Daud spits through his teeth. “I haven’t killed since—.”

He doesn’t finish, and Geoff smirks triumphantly at that.

“Since what?” he inquires, his tone sharp, cutting to the bone. “Since you murdered the Empress?”

Daud closes his left fist and for a second Slackjaw sees the Outsider’s mark glowing up, its outline visible through the leather glove. It dies down almost immediately, as soon as Daud straightens his fingers and takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” he says, holding his head up high and meeting Geoff’s gaze. “Since I killed the Empress.”

For a moment they look at one another, their eyes equally cold and full of disdain.

“Why did you do it?” Geoff asks.

It’s not something Daud wants to share. He winces and grinds his teeth, his face scrunched in fury and defiance. But he answers, with the naked honesty that makes Slackjaw shudder once again.

“Partly because I’m vain,” Daud says, holding Geoff’s gaze, his nostrils flaring. “Because I wanted to go down in history as someone who’s achieved the impossible. But mainly, I did it for the same reason you killed Corporal Jones once upon a time — to protect the people I loved.”

Geoff pales dramatically, his eyes impossibly round, breath shallow and uneven. Slackjaw wants to take him by the hand, but doesn’t dare this time. It’s a sensitive subject, something Geoff only mentioned to him once, years ago, when he got thoroughly drunk. He was young and in love when Corporal Jones walked in on him and his lover and threatened to report it to the high command or the Abbey, and Geoff panicked.

“Why do you want to help me, Daud?” Slackjaw asks to change the topic, giving Geoff a moment to pull himself together.

Daud looks down, at the back of his left hand, scowling. “The black-eyed bastard has been toying with me for ages,” he says with a dark, bitter note to it. “It’s time he gets a taste of his own medicine.”

“But what does it have to do with me?” Slackjaw asks, shaking his head.

Daud sighs, pushing himself off the table and taking a chair instead. He sits down, rounding his back, resting his forearms on his thighs, head hanging low between his shoulders. He looks tired, beaten down, old.

“See, when Attano came to me, asking for proof that you’re the Heir of Tyvia, I thought he’s lost his mind,” Daud says, chuckling softly. “I asked how he even got this idea… and he told me a strange story that didn’t make much sense, but that led me to one very odd conclusion. The black-eyed bastard really doesn’t like you, Your Grace,” he says, glancing up with a quizzical look on his face.

“Why would the Outsider have a personal issue with me?” Slackjaw asks, frowning. It makes no sense.

“Precisely.” Daud presses his elbows to his thighs, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on top of them. “You never worshipped him, but you didn’t deny his existence either. You cursed in his name, but not more than anyone else. Why then?”

Slackjaw throws up his hands and raises his brows, just to give Daud the prompt he clearly expects.

“He was really unhappy when Attano saved you and killed Granny Rags,” Daud continues with a malicious grin flashing over his face. “He likes to say he doesn’t play favourites, but that’s bullshit. She was always his favourite. Fiercely devoted, sacrificed her entire life for him, did anything he asked her. Unlike the rest of us, ungrateful assholes.”

He laughs, it sounds almost like a barking dog.

“So at first, I assumed that he was just upset about losing his mad bride,” he says. “But then he decided to arrange a little meeting with me, right after Attano asked me for help. Just to tell me that neither of us knew the full truth and we were making a mistake, helping you reclaim your throne. So I decided to find that truth I didn’t know.”

“And?” Geoff asks cautiously, eyes narrowed ever so slightly, body tipped forward. “What did you find?”

Daud smirks, as if pleased that he managed to rope Geoff into this tale as well. For a man claiming he’s not a storyteller, he’s surprisingly good at it and enjoys it way too much.

“Granny Rags lived just next door to Slackjaw’s distillery for several years prior to the Rat Plague,” he replies, pausing afterwards, for just long enough to make Geoff lean further forward and shake his head. “And it made me wonder, why did she choose that specific time to strike and why did she want to get rid of Slackjaw, of all people.”

Slackjaw blows a raspberry. “Because she was a crazy witch who wanted the entire city to go down in chaos, while I was trying to keep it alive?” he suggests.

Daud chuckles. “Maybe,” he agrees, tipping his head to the side. “But when I was collecting information about you, I learned that your mother — I mean the woman who raised you — worshipped a god I’ve never heard about. And something tells me you do, too.”

Slackjaw narrows his eyes, tensing defensively. “What if I do?” he says and Daud bares his teeth in a triumphant smile.

“Can you pinpoint when you established some sort of a connection to your god?” he asks, his voice remarkably soft.

> He’s on the floor in his distillery office, knees drawn to his chest, back pressed to the wooden pillar, cleaver stuck into it, somewhere above his head. He takes long sips of whiskey straight from the bottle, but he’s still too sober, too aware. He’s lost and desperate, and terrified, when he closes his eyes and begins to whisper a prayer, not the old formula his mother taught him, but a helpless plea to keep Geoff safe, keep him _alive_ , promising to do anything, give anything in exchange.
> 
> The one-eyed bird listens to his words and the beseeching note in his voice. It looks at Slackjaw’s neck bent in humble supplication, his hands, clasped together over the whiskey bottle, and it smiles, its many white teeth glistening in the twilight. It white-feathered fingers reach out and touch Slackjaw’s heart, accepting his offering, taking all the love he has there, and weaving a silver thread out of it. It pets Slackjaw’s hair with tenderness of a parent putting their child to bed, and when Slackjaw sinks into his whiskey-soaked, feverish slumber, the one-eyed bird spreads its wings wide and takes the silver thread from Slackjaw to Geoff, from Geoff to his niece, and from her to Corvo Attano, tying a knot over his tender heart, making him promise Callista to save Geoff, if only it will be in his power.

Geoff’s holding his hand, squeezing hard, his fingers digging into the flesh of Slackjaw’s palm, his skin clammy, cold. Slackjaw looks into Geoff’s pale face, his terrified eyes, and realises that he must’ve been gone for a moment again, scared the shit out of his poor watchman.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling Geoff’s hand up to his lips.

Daud’s still there, at the table, watching them intently, but Geoff doesn’t oppose, instead studying Slackjaw’s face.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice a little breathy and unsteady.

“I swear,” Slackjaw says, pressing Geoff’s palm to his chest, just over the locket.

Geoff smiles briefly and then bites his lip. “Just talking to the gods?” he says in a tone that’s meant to be joking, but comes out scared and unsure instead. Slackjaw nods. “Alright,” Geoff says, visibly straining to sound calm. He doesn’t quite succeed, but he cracks a pale smile in reassurance.

Slackjaw kisses his hand again and then just holds it in his when he looks back to Daud. “It was during the Rat Plague,” he says, brushing his thumb over Geoff’s wrist.

Daud nods, unsurprised, smug. “Which, coincidentally, is when Granny Rags went after you, right?”

Slackjaw freezes, his breath slowing down for a moment, when he remembers the sequence of events — his elixir getting poisoned the exact night after he prayed to the Many-Eyed God.

“What are you tryin’ to say?” he asks, feeling his heartbeat in his throat. “That the Outsider set her on me? Why?”

“He’s a child,” Daud says, shrugging. “He’s moody. Jealous. Possessive. Maybe he didn’t like it that there was some new god on his home turf.”

> Corvo, carrying Geoff out of the High Overseer’s headquarters.
> 
> Corvo, defeating Granny Rags and opening Slackjaw’s shackles.
> 
> Corvo, with a black mark on the back of his hand and a silver thread around his heart.

Perhaps the Outsider simply didn’t like other gods playing with his toys.

“Alright,” Slackjaw says, swallowing hard. “Let’s say that you helping me will piss off your god. Why the heck not. Why do you want to do it, though? He gave you powers that make you invincible, shouldn’t you love him for it?”

Daud laughs, it’s a low, bitter chuckle. “You don’t know him. He doesn’t give you these powers out of the goodness of his heart, because he wants to help you. He does it for himself, to have a bit of a laugh at your expense, to see the world burn.”

“So you want to keep it from burning out of spite?” Slackjaw asks, laughter creeping into his words.

“Something like that, yeah,” Daud admits, smirking. “There are no strings attached,” he assures, growing serious, looking Slackjaw dead in the eye. “If you need any sort of help, ask away and I’ll do what I can.”

It would be foolish to trust Daud, the Knife of Dunwall, the Killer of an Empress. But Slackjaw can’t afford to refuse help, not when Daud is his only connection to the world outside the Tower and he has little to no time to come up with a plan of reclaiming his throne.

“First, I’ll need you to explain this situation to Sally and tell her to take over Bottle Street,” he says.

It will be a long time before he gets to see Sally again. If he does at all. He needs her to know what’s really going on and be ready, come what may.

“Very well,” Daud agrees. “Anything else?”

Slackjaw bites down on his thumb, trying to think of a way to defeat Countess Lukomska, Duchess Ohryzko, and then Secretary Kalin. He thinks of ships and railcars, of marching soldiers, of all the bloodshed that they would cause, all the unnecessary deaths. It’s not how he wants to fight this war.

> The five-eyed bird smiles at him, its beak pointing towards a battle scene, muted and static, yet full of sound and movement, like a masterful painting.
> 
> ‘Look at history, my child,’ the five-eyed bird says, its voice is the sound of darkness itself, soft, muffled, and horrifying. ‘History holds all answers. All you need to do is ask the right question.’
> 
> The scene shifts and morphes before his eyes, the weapons and technology changing, evolving so fast he feels queasy. The five-eyed bird steps between him and the war history of the world, its feathers blacker than anything Slackjaw has ever seen, so dark he can barely look at them without feeling like he’s falling into the abyss.
> 
> ‘Here’s the question for you, my child,’ the five-eyed bird says in the voice of a tree scratching against the wall during a storm, of a wolf howling in the dead of night, of footsteps following him in a deserted, dark alley. ‘What’s the most powerful weapon against humankind?’

Geoff is watching him, bottom lip between his teeth, brows pinched together, but fairly calm otherwise, as if he’s getting used to Slackjaw just drifting away for a moment or two sometimes. Slackjaw smiles at him, interlacing their fingers, thinking of what he’s just seen and heard, searching for the answer in the annals of history.

He grins, when he gets it, at last, feeling the weight of his crown against his temples, seeing his scarlet-lined throne, filling his lungs with the cold northern wind.

“I’ll need you to bring me a certain natural philosopher,” he says, looking at Daud.


	3. The Five-Eyed Bird of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Slackjaw takes what is rightfully his.

**i.**

Rumour had it that Kirin Jindosh, the genius expelled from the Academy for reasons still unknown to the public, was young. Slackjaw expected this to mean his late twenties or early thirties. He was very wrong, though.

Jindosh is barely more than a boy, freshly out of his teenage years — a lanky, long-limbed thing, with a face that’s all sharp angles, a wispy, but carefully trimmed mustache, and cheeks scarred from acne. He’s thin, worryingly so, though he hides it well with clothes that tell the story of his fall from the Academy’s grace better than words could — worn-out pieces of excellent quality juxtaposed with cheap clothing that looks almost brand new. But even though he’s hungry and penniless, Kirin Jindosh’s brown eyes shine with pride and defiance, and Slackjaw knows from the get-go that it won’t be easy to strike a deal with this kid.

But before he starts making business with Jindosh, he has to face Corvo.

Who’s fuming.

“I’d really appreciate it if you discussed such ideas with me _beforehand_ ,” he spits out through his teeth. “You have Anton right here, why would you drag him—” he points to a screen connecting to the one in the safe room, where they've deposited Jindosh temporarily, “into all of this?”

Slackjaw sighs, waving a hand in the air. No matter what he says and how he phrases it, Corvo will hate it. He strives for politeness, anyway. He’s a goddamn prince, after all.

“Let’s say that Sokolov isn’t the right type of inventor for me,” he says, suppressing the urge to shrug. It could come across as defensive, which is not a good position to put himself into.

“And what do you mean by that?” Corvo asks with a warning note to his tone. His eyes narrow, losing all their warmth. “That he’s too reputable?”

Slackjaw can’t help but laugh. Calling Sokolov reputable is a big of a stretch.

“I don’t want a _murder machine_ ,” he says, once he regains his composure, meeting Corvo’s gaze. “And that’s Sokolov’s expertise, isn’t it?”

Corvo doesn’t let himself be pushed into defense, either. “What are you planning?” he asks right away, not even trying to conceal his mistrust.

Slackjaw crosses his arms over his chest, unblinking and still under Corvo’s scrutiny. “I’ll explain the details to you once I have my prototype,” he says. “I told you that already.”

Corvo sneers, eyes darting to Geoff as if he expected some support from him. Geoff looks away, mouth pressed into a thin, displeased line. Corvo sucks in a deep, steadying breath, rubbing the back of his left hand.

“Fine,” he growls eventually. “Can you at least tell me how you intend to—” he pauses, exhaling in a short, irritated huff, “handle this man here?” He once more waves towards the screen. In the safe room, Jindosh has flung himself over the couch in a rather dramatical pose and stares dead-eyed in the ceiling. For some reason, the sight of it makes Corvo grind his teeth. For some reason, it makes something inside Slackjaw’s chest tighten. “I’d like to remind you that he was expelled from the Academy.”

“And?” Slackjaw shrugs, rolling his eyes. “So was Piero Joplin, but it didn’t stop ya from using his inventions in the past. Nor did it stop Joplin from inventing a cure to the Plague.”

Corvo winces but does not argue that. “Could you answer my question, please?” he says instead.

“No,” Slackjaw replies evenly. “I don’t know that kid yet, I don’t know how to get to him. Lemme talk to him, first.”

Something dangerously akin to madness glimmers in Corvo’s eyes as he takes a step towards him. “Do you think it’s a game, Slackjaw?” he says, his voice low and gravelly, the anger in it barely masking the panic underneath. “We don’t have time for this bullshit. We won’t be able to keep Vsevolod’s death a secret for much longer, and the moment it becomes public information, all of your extended family will start tearing each other apart for the title.”

Slackjaw scoffs, closing his eyes for just long enough to rein in all the disdain he feels for Corvo right now. “You and I both know you’re not concerned about Tyvia or my extended family,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “So, please, don’t try to make it sound like you care.”

Corvo bares his teeth to grind out a retort, but Slackjaw doesn’t let him. “If it happened a decade ago, you’d support Kalin without any qualms,” he hisses, leaning in, making use of his height advantage. “You’d support him right the fuck now if only Tyvia wasn’t so fed up with that monster that your support would cause a nation-wide revolt.”

He laughs bitterly, looking into Corvo’s suddenly blanched face. “Slackjaw’s right, ain’t he?” he drawls. “I know greed when I see it, my friend. And I’ve seen plenty of men surrender to it as you do.”

There’s a sharp whizz of Corvo’s blade unfolding, and then — before Slackjaw has a chance to react — a clash of metal against metal when Geoff locks his sword with Corvo’s and steps between the two of them, his eyes colder than ever, the line of his mouth unreadable.

Corvo’s pupils shrink, his upper lip curling to show his gritted teeth. “What in the Void are you doing, Curnow?” he growls.

Geoff’s sword doesn’t flinch, his hand perfectly steady, as he meets Corvo’s eyes above their crossed blades and says, with deadly calm, “My job, Lord Protector. Protecting His Grace, Prince Aleksandr of Tyvia.”

Corvo splutters and it’s music to Slackjaw’s sore ears.

He bites hard into the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “It’s alright, Curnow,” he says, once he’s sure he can control his voice. Geoff glances at him over his shoulder and slowly puts his blade away. He doesn’t step back, though. “There’s no need for threats of violence here,” Slackjaw says, looking at Corvo. “We have a common goal, after all.”

“Do we, really?” Corvo says, not making a move to hide his sword. “You haven’t been acting like it thus far, Your Grace.”

Slackjaw steps forward, past Geoff, and pushes Corvo’s blade down with an open palm. “I said I’d help you,” he says solemnly. “And you should know by now that Slackjaw never goes back on his word.”

Corvo chuckles, his blade clicking and folding at last. He still keeps the hilt in his hand, though, his knuckles whitening around it. “Then what would you call this?” He jerks his head towards the screen.

Slackjaw clicks his tongue in response. “Finding a loophole,” he says sweetly, drawing his shoulders to his ears. “Kinda like you did back in the day when you robbed that safe before bringing me the combination,” he adds, showing his teeth in a grin. Corvo flinches, his face frozen in cold fury. “I didn’t specify I wanted the content of that safe intact, did I? I played myself. And so did you, my friend,” Slackjaw says. “So did you.”

Corvo squares his jaw. “I was desperate then,” he spits out with genuine offense in his voice.

Slackjaw sighs, opening up his palms. “Well, I’m desperate now,” he counters. “Guess that makes us even, eh?”

Corvo closes his eyes and takes a long breath through his nose, as he finally puts his sword back in its sheath. “Please try to get this done as quickly as possible, Your Grace,” he says, before leaving the room, his footsteps echoing loudly in the marble corridors.

⬩

When they enter the safe room, Jindosh doesn’t move. His eyes are still glued to the ceiling, hands clasped tightly over his stomach, one leg thrown over the back of the sofa at an uncomfortable angle.

“Finally,” he says after a moment. “What do you want from me?”

He sits up, slowly, as if every move drained him from energy. He tilts his head back to face Slackjaw. He looks exhausted, with a dreadfully pale complexion, dark circles under his eyes, and a sheen of sticky sweat over his forehead. His breathing is slow and labored. His hands tremble just the tiniest bit.

Slackjaw has seen dozens of kids like this over the course of his life, he knows addiction when he sees it, and the sight of it makes him angry. Jindosh is young and far gone, he must’ve started very early, way before Slackjaw had any say in the drug market. But he still feels guilty, looking at this wreck of a boy he cannot save.

“Let’s have lunch first,” Slackjaw says, pulling a chair from the table and sitting down opposite Jindosh, who blinks slowly.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, his tone plain flat.

Slackjaw chuckles grimly. Of course he’s not hungry, he probably hasn’t been hungry in years. “When did you last eat?” he asks.

Jindosh doesn’t know and for a second Slackjaw sees a flash of panic in his dark eyes, but it goes out quickly. Jindosh shrugs. “What does it matter?” he asks.

“You’re going to eat first,” Slackjaw says. “Then we can talk.”

Jindosh looks at him with fiery defiance, but Slackjaw pays him no mind, turning to Geoff instead. “Could you try to get him something, please? Something warm, a soup, maybe? Or some sort of a runny puree? Something that doesn’t require much chewing.”

Geoff nods, casting a quick, compassionate glance at Jindosh’s pale face and stooped shoulders. He’s seen a great deal of broken children as well. Slackjaw’s sure he and Geoff feel equally guilty about this.

They wait in silence. Jindosh stares blankly into space, intertwining his fingers to hide the fact that they’re shaking, shifting his shoulders every few minutes. He’s sweating, the thin cotton shirt must be sticking to his back under the tweed jacket that probably fit like a glove once, but now looks much too big for Jindosh’s small frame.

Slackjaw has seen many addicts in his life, he knows that all he can do in this case, is to make sure that Jindosh gets the good, pure stuff in reasonable doses. But before that, Jindosh has to eat.

Geoff comes back after a long while with a bowl of creamy pumpkin soup and a jug of water. Jindosh shudders when this meal is set before him. He looks like he’s fighting nausea.

“You gotta eat that, boy,” Slackjaw says.

Jindosh looks up at him, his eyes glimmering, mouth sealed shut. He doesn’t try to speak, only shakes his head. He’s no longer a defiant, dignified prisoner, but a child desperately pleading with their parents to please, please let him leave the table.

Slackjaw doesn’t get up, only tilts his body forward, until he’s eye-to-eye with Jindosh. “You eat that, boy,” he repeats, a little more forcefully, “or I feed that to you. The choice is yours.”

Gritting his teeth, Jindosh reaches for the spoon. Slackjaw smiles at him in response.

⬩

“What do you want from me?” Jindosh asks solid twenty minutes after he’s finished the soup, when he no longer seems like he’s about to throw up.

“I want to make a deal,” Slackjaw says, reaching into the pouch at his belt and fishing out a small, simple snuffbox that he throws to Jindosh.

Jindosh catches it instinctively in both hands, casting Slackjaw a wary look. He opens the box cautiously, narrowing his eyes as if half-expecting it to be a trap of sorts. Once he looks inside, his pupils widen in sudden relief that quickly melts into a flash of panic, as Jindosh glances up at Slackjaw and then Geoff, standing right beside him.

And then all expression is wiped away from his face as Jindosh puts the snuffbox aside and falls to his knees in a fluid, practiced motion that sets Slackjaw’s teeth on edge.

“Get up,” he says, louder and harsher than he intended when Jindosh’s hands move towards him. Jindosh obeys without a sound, visibly afraid, as if wondering what else Slackjaw might demand in exchange for the drug. “Sit,” Slackjaw says, softer now.

Jindosh sits, his fingers closing over the snuffbox, chest heaving in a too rapid breath. Slackjaw stands up, looking away.

“I want to talk,” he says, trying to control the fury he feels. “Pull yourself together. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

He leaves the room without looking back, with Geoff at his heels. Then he leans against the closed door, grinding his teeth so hard it hurts.

“I need to see Daud,” he growls.

⬩

Daud is nowhere to be found.

Instead, Slackjaw is faced with Sokolov, sullen and clearly offended as he looks into the screen showing Jindosh rubbing the leftover drug into his gums.

“As far as I remember, _I_ am the Royal Physician here,” he says coolly.

Slackjaw rolls his eyes. He has neither time nor patience for petty drama. He’s still furious, ready to rip someone apart. “Well, let’s say I need an inventor, rather than a physician,” he grinds through his teeth.

“Oh, I see, I’m not inventive enough for you, then?” Sokolov scoffs, somehow missing the warning in Slackjaw’s tone. “You really think an Academy dropout will do a better job than myself?”

Slackjaw catches Geoff’s gaze over Sokolov’s shoulder. Geoff rolls his eyes dramatically, making Slackjaw relax a little.

“Speaking of the Academy,” Slackjaw says, once he regains his composure. Sokolov raises one bushy eyebrow to show his attention. “Why was he expelled?”

Sokolov turns around suddenly, crossing his arms over his bird-like chest, and this alone tells Slackjaw everything he needs to know. He still waits to hear the lie Sokolov will try to feed him, though.

“Heresy,” Sokolov says, shrugging ever so slightly, his long fingers moving along the seam of his jacket. “Possession of heretic texts and artifacts.”

Geoff snorts, shaking his head. Sokolov turns to him right away, his eyes burning. He’d love to take out his frustration on someone, and he seems to think Geoff will take it without fighting back.

In all of his genius, Sokolov is a real fool.

“Excuse me, General Curnow?” he hisses, narrowing his eyes, his fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “What’s so funny?”

Geoff straightens his back and shrugs, his mouth pursed in clear disdain. “Just that you’d expel someone for heresy when everyone in the Isles knows you’re obsessed with the Outsider.” Sokolov has the gall to act offended and Geoff chuckles grimly, shaking his head again. “Come on, even you know it’s ridiculous. That’s why the reason for his expulsion was never made public, right? You knew no one would buy it.”

Sokolov tilts his head to the side as he looks at Geoff, which makes him look even more bird-like. “You’re getting a bit bold for a simple guardsman, Curnow,” he growls.

Geoff holds his gaze with a slight mocking smirk on his lips. “I beg forgiveness, Master Sokolov,” he says, pressing his palm to his chest and bowing ever so slightly. “I was merely stating the facts.”

“Seriously, though,” Slackjaw chimes in before Sokolov gets wound up enough to bring this conversation up to Corvo and get Geoff in trouble. “It _is_ ridiculous. So, what’s the real reason? What did he really do?”

Sokolov doesn’t answer, pressing his already thin lips together, until they nearly disappear. Slackjaw chuckles, shaking his head, just like Geoff a moment ago.

“There was no crime, was there, Sokolov?” he says softly and smiles when he sees the Royal Physician pull his head between the shoulders in another bird-like movement. “So why did you throw him out?”

“He’s dangerous,” Sokolov spits out. “Unpredictable. The things he did… the things he _made_ …” He trails off, shaking his head, looking at the screen again. In the safe room, Jindosh is looking straight into the lens of the other screen, a slight, playful smirk curling his lips. “He had not committed a crime _yet_ ,” Sokolov says, “but it’s only a matter of time, Slackjaw.”

Slackjaw gives him a long, disgusted look. “So to prevent that, you decided to throw an innocent kid into the streets? Take away his life’s work and leave him with nothing but anger at this jarring injustice? Brilliant, Sokolov, truly.”

Sokolov makes a sound that reminds Slackjaw of a falcon his name comes from. “You don’t understand,” he says.

Slackjaw laughs, throwing his head back. “Oh, please,” he scoffs. “What’s there to understand? You’re a small, bitter man, Sokolov. You couldn’t bear the thought of one of your students becoming greater than you. So to make sure they wouldn’t, you clipped their wings, and when that didn’t work, you decided to just remove them altogether. You did that with Joplin, and you did that with Jindosh, because apparently, despite your genius, you’re an absolute idiot, who never learns.”

Sokolov is boiling with anger, his face red, teeth gritted so hard they might crack. “How dare you accuse me of—”

Slackjaw waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I think I’ve heard enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a country to win back. General, may we?” Geoff nods, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. Slackjaw smiles at him. “Oh, and Sokolov?” he adds, when they’re just about to leave the room. “Send Daud my way, if you see him.

**ii.**

This time Jindosh is perfectly composed, sharp, and ready to fight. Slackjaw likes him much better this way. He takes a seat in the same chair he’s sat in before, Geoff at his side. This time, Jindosh doesn’t ask him what he wants, instead studying his face and clothes, his gaze curious and analytical, fear tucked away so neatly it’s barely noticeable.

“As I said, I have a deal for you,” Slackjaw says without unnecessary introductions. “I want you to build something for me, Kirin.”

Jindosh smirks, narrowing his almond-shaped eyes. “I’m sure you do,” he says, his voice almost a purr. “I only wonder, why you’d ask for my help when you could use the expertise of someone far more accomplished than myself,” he adds, glancing at the screen at the corner of the room.

Slackjaw chuckles, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Because just like you, I have no reason to trust those bastards,” he says in Tyvian and smiles when he sees surprise flickering through Jindosh’s expression.

“I see,” Jindosh says, switching to Tyvian as well. His accent is soft, lilting. It makes Slackjaw see the one-eyed bird circle over the green steppes of the north, chase herds of sheep and small, sturdy horses. “I believe some introductions are in order,” Jindosh adds, smiling. “I thought I was speaking to a Gristolian crime lord, but perhaps I was mistaken?”

Slackjaw smiles, straightening his back, lifting his head, feeling the weight of the crown against his temples and the soft touch of green feathers against his skin. “Aleksandr Korolev, the Heir of Tyvia,” he says. Jindosh’s mouth falls open for just a second, then he bows his head and presses his right hand against his chest. “Your Tyvian is really good,” Slackjaw notes. He doesn’t feel comfortable with such gestures, not yet, not while his land is still in the hands of Secretary Kalin. "I assume you emigrated young."

“We spoke Tyvian at home.” Jindosh shrugs. It comes off as oddly defensive. “My brother and I. My mother—.” He winces. “It doesn’t matter, does it? So you want me to build you a war machine.”

It’s not a question. And perhaps that’s why Jindosh looks so surprised when Slackjaw shakes his head.

“They want that,” Slackjaw says, waving at the screen. “They want me to take my country by force, invade it like some sort of a common usurper. But I won’t spill the blood of my people and tear my motherland apart. I’m the rightful heir to the throne. I shouldn’t need to fight to get it back.”

Jindosh seems to understand the meaning of those words right away, and Slackjaw wonders whether it has anything to do with the five-eyed bird standing right behind him, its tar-black feathers brushing against Jindosh’s dark hair, its countless black teeth bared in a ravenous smile.

“And what’s in it for me?” Jindosh asks softly, playfully, as if he didn’t really need any payment, as if being allowed to build the machine of Slackjaw’s dreams and stick it to the assholes at the Academy was payment enough.

Kirin Jindosh is broken. He’s dangerous and unpredictable. But he’s not evil, nor is he irredeemable. He’s capable of incredible things. He just needs someone to show him some trust, to give him a chance.

“I will need a Royal Inventor, when I take the throne,” Slackjaw says, smiling. “There’s a lot I want to change and I’d like you to help me.”

Jindosh chuckles, pulling his mouth into a pout, which makes his already prominent cheekbones stand out more. “So, a position at your court?”

Slackjaw shrugs, crossing his legs at the ankles. “It comes with unlimited funding for your experiments,” he adds, winking at the young natural philosopher.

He expects Jindosh to smile, but he sours instead. “Where’s the catch, Your Grace?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. He seems angry when he reaches into a pocket of his jacket and takes out the snuffbox Slackjaw has given him earlier. “You want me to quit, right? You want me to get sober, and if I don’t, then—”

“Do you want to get sober?” Slackjaw cuts in.

“No,” Jindosh growls, his fist closing over the metal box. He’ll hurt himself if he keeps squeezing. But Slackjaw knows better than to try and take the thing from him right now.

“Then you won’t get sober,” he says, shrugging. Jindosh’s eyes narrow even further. “I can’t force you to quit. And I don’t mean to. If at any point you want to get sober, come to me and I’ll do my best to help. But until then… Well, all I can do is to make sure you get the good stuff. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”

For a long moment, Jindosh watches him in silence, fingers still closed around the snuffbox, mouth pursed. Then he shakes his head. “Where’s the catch?” he asks. “Nothing ever comes without a catch.”

Slackjaw smiles, leaning a little forward. “The catch is that I want to use you, Kirin,” he says and tries to ignore the way Jindosh flinches. “They kicked you out from the Academy and they’re convinced all you’re capable of is becoming a monster. But you know what? I think they’re full of shit. That you’re capable of so, so much more. I want to prove them wrong. I want to show them that we’re not like them, that we’re not defined by their actions and stereotypes, that we’re so much more than this.”

Jindosh looks impossibly young when he looks up at him, his bottom lip quivering just the tiniest bit, his eyes a little glassy. Slackjaw reaches out to the hand that’s still holding the snuffbox and pries Jindosh’s fingers open, without touching the box, leaving it right there, in that sickly pale palm marked with angry red lines, where the metal dug into the skin.

“So here’s my deal, Kirin,” Slackjaw says, leaning away, putting his hands in his lap. “You build me that machine, become my Royal Inventor, and help me prove all those Gristolian assholes wrong. And I, on my part, will make sure you can build what you wish, have enough money for your experiments, and don’t get poisoned with some questionable stuff. Sounds fair?”

Jindosh spends a moment looking at the snuffbox in his hand, then he puts it back in his pocket and extends that hand for Slackjaw to shake. “Deal,” he says firmly. “I’ll sketch a project and let you know what materials I need.”

⬩

Corvo asks to have dinner with him that night. He tries to make it sound like he's trying to make amends for his outburst in the morning, but it quickly becomes obvious that he just wants to know the details of Slackjaw's conversation with Jindosh. Apparently, old Sokolov got so offended that he stormed out of the Tower, leaving Corvo with no one to translate.

Slackjaw smiles sweetly, keeping all of his secrets, sharing only what he finds necessary, including the list of materials Jindosh provided him with.

"Already?" Corvo seems genuinely shocked when Slackjaw hands him the piece of paper.

He's been working with no one but Sokolov for a long time and Sokolov is known for taking his time with every project. Jindosh, however, is young and eager. And drugged, but Slackjaw isn't going to mention that.

Corvo knits his brows together and puts down his fork as he examines the list, the awe in his expression giving way to annoyance. "What in the Void is this?" he says, waving the piece of paper in the air.

Slackjaw waits with an answer until he's done chewing a piece of lamb. Purely out of spite. "It's a list of materials Jindosh needs to build my war machine," he explains, smiling ever so slightly.

Corvo takes a deep breath, putting the page down and rubbing the base of his nose, visibly trying to rein himself in. "Did you see what he's written?" he asks.

"Yeah, I did, why?" Slackjaw asks ever so innocently. Driving Corvo mad is one of the few enjoyable things he gets to do in this terrible place, so he relishes it, whenever he can.

"Then maybe you can explain to me, why he needs half a tonne of wicker and," Corvo pauses to glance back at the list, "three hundred pounds of _feathers_?"

"I have no idea why he needs those things, but you know what?” Slackjaw says, smiling, “I trust him. And I'd like you to trust me. Have I ever lied to you?"

Corvo sighs, reaching for his glass of Tyvian red and taking a big sip. "I'd just like to know what exactly you're planning, Slackjaw," he says, his voice cool and displeased. "Have you lied to me? No, I don't think you have. But you keep hiding things from me and, to be honest, it does make me more than a little suspicious."

Slackjaw puts his cutlery down and wipes his mouth on a napkin. It seems like he won't escape this conversation, no matter how hard he tries, so he might as well get it out of the way.

"There are several reasons why I keep things secret," he says, pouring himself some wine as well and swirling it around the glass. "Number one is that I actually miss my privacy. Ever since you brought me here, I have your people on my back, monitoring my every move. I can't even piss in peace."

It's true, to a certain extent. He _is_ being watched — by Corvo, by Sokolov, by the maids, the guards — and it drives him mad, makes him feel like some sort of a Pandyssian beast trapped in a tiny cage. But Corvo doesn't seem to think about that, instead, his eyes move to Geoff, who's finished his meal as well and now listens to the conversation, sipping on some whisky.

"Curnow isn't spying for me," Corvo says defensively. "He's there to keep you safe, not—"

"I know, I know." Slackjaw waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. Poor, oblivious Corvo. "I get that. All I'm saying is that it makes me try to find ways to protect what privacy I still have left. So that's one thing. Then, well... Kalin has many informants. You never know who's spying for him. And I assume you don't want him to know our plans before we strike."

Corvo opens his mouth, probably to assure him that the Tower is free of spies and informers, but doesn't say anything in the end, frowning even deeper and taking another sip of his wine.

At least he's aware of what kind of a man they're up against.

"And if you're referring to the fact I spoke Tyvian with Jindosh..." Slackjaw says, shrugging ever so slightly. "Well, that was the easiest way to get him to work for me. That boy has no reason to trust Gristolians, you know."

The corner of Corvo's mouth twitches.

"Okay, fine," Corvo says eventually, throwing up his hands. "I guess I'm being paranoid." He lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing the base of his nose again. "I'm sorry for being suspicious," he adds, quieter, more sincerely. "I am trying to trust you, for the record. Not doing a great job with that, clearly, but I'm trying."

Slackjaw chuckles softly. "Well, that's a start, I s'pose," he says, raising his glass in a toast. "Cheers to that."

⬩

"I'm really glad to know you're not spying for Corvo," Slackjaw says, once Geoff has closed the door to their suite. Geoff snorts a laugh, shrugging off his uniform jacket.

"Oh, but I am, actually," he says in a conspiratorial whisper, moving closer to Slackjaw and beginning to unbutton his shirt. "I tell Corvo _everything_."

"Oh really?" Slackjaw teases. "Like what?"

"Like the fact that you usually sleep on your back, your favourite breakfast is eggs, and you get hard every time I do this," Geoff purrs, biting into Slackjaw's neck. Slackjaw groans in response, pulling Geoff closer and pressing against him.

"You're getting bold for a simple guardsman," he says, mimicking Sokolov.

They both laugh, stumbling blindly towards the bed, still half-dressed, kissing lazily. They're not in a rush, they have the whole night. And many more to come.

"He's changed," Geoff says, resting his head on Slackjaw's shoulder. "He used to be so... good, you know? A shining example to us all. And now?"

Though Geoff doesn't mention any names, it's clear he's talking about Corvo. Sokolov has always been rotten, but Corvo... Yeah, Corvo used to be good, pure.

"He's so cynical now," Geoff says, his fingers beginning to trace complex patterns across Slackjaw's bare chest. "I don't know if it's the power or just Dunwall. But I wish you'd met him sooner, you'd have liked him back then, you'd have gotten along."

Slackjaw sighs, reaching up to brush his fingers through Geoff's hair. "I wanted to be like him," he admits. "Before."

They fall silent for a while, it's a heavy, uncomfortable silence, but Slackjaw doesn't know how to break it. All he can think of is his plans, his future, and he doesn't want to talk about those right now, he doesn't want to think about the consequences it will have for him and Geoff, for their relationship.

But he has no choice, it seems.

"What have you talked about with that kid?" Geoff asks, straining to sound casual as if he already knew.

Slackjaw thinks of all the books about Tyvia and Tyvian language that Geoff has practically devoured since they've been locked down together in the Tower, and can't help but wonder just how much Geoff understood from his conversation with Jindosh. And why he tried to learn Tyvian in the first place.

"I asked him to take the position of my Royal Inventor, when... you know," Slackjaw mumbles, looking away and trying to not read into the way Geoff's fingers stop for a moment, fingernails digging into his skin.

"Oh," Geoff sighs. He doesn't sound surprised. "Right."

Now that Slackjaw has Jindosh on board, taking back his throne and moving to Tyvia is a matter of weeks. It's no longer a distant fantasy, it's a reality they can plan in detail, and it terrifies him, not because that means facing Secretary Kalin and the folk of Tyvia, but because it means leaving Gristol and his little criminal empire behind. Leaving Geoff behind.

It was difficult enough to keep their relationship alive in the timeframe they were given. To keep it alive with a whole wide sea separating them at all times seems impossible. And they should most definitely talk about it, end it before it ends them, but Slackjaw cannot bring himself to do it, he just cannot.

"I want to make Daud my Spymaster," he says, shrugging. This change of topic still has them circling dangerously close to his leave to Tyvia and their subsequent, inevitable breakup, but it's the best he can come up with. Geoff has some very strong feelings towards Daud, hopefully this can keep them from talking about their future for just a moment longer.

"What?" Predictably, Geoff sits upright right away, one hand curling into a fist against Slackjaw's chest, the other tangled in the bedsheets. "Are you— He's a criminal."

Slackjaw chuckles, shaking his head. "And what am I?" he asks, touching Geoff's hand. "These people will have a crime lord for a prince, I really don't think an assassin for a spymaster will seem that strange and inappropriate to them."

Geoff huffs a tiny, strangled laugh, shaking his head. "What sort of a court of misfit is that gonna be?" he jokes half-heartedly, before leaning back against Slackjaw and asking, "Do you seriously trust Daud?"

Slackjaw thinks about it for a moment, brushing his thumb behind Geoff's ear, almost making him purr. "No, I don't," he admits eventually. "But I don't think I need to, you know?"

"Of course you need to!" Geoff groans, scurrying backward to sit on his heels and look Slackjaw in the face. His eyes glimmer with annoyance. "You most definitely need to trust the person you're giving this much power."

"Empress Jessamine trusted Burrows and look where it got her," Slackjaw counters, shrugging again. "Is Daud my friend? No, not really. But if he takes that job, he'll have no reason to make a move against me"

"He had no reason to kill the Empress, and yet," Geoff says, pressing his lips into the thinnest of displeased lines and Slackjaw can't help, but kiss him, until his mouth relaxes. "I don't think Daud is the logical person you take him for," Geoff says, unwilling to drop the subject.

"Oh, he's definitely not logical," Slackjaw agrees and smiles, when Geoff frowns. "Look, I appreciate your worry," he says, brushing his thumb against the corner of Geoff's mouth, "but I think I understand him a little better than you do."

He knows it's true, he gets Daud in a way that lawful, honest Geoff never could. If Daud takes the job, he'll never act against Slackjaw, because even though he's a criminal, he's an honorable one, just like Slackjaw himself. They're two of a kind. It doesn't mean they can trust each other, but it grants them the ability to predict each other's moves and keep each other in a permanent check.

Geoff's mouth twitches, his frown deepening for a second, before melting away. "Just, please, be careful," he whispers, his eyes darkening with worry. "I couldn't—."

Slackjaw doesn't let him finish, pulling him into a hasty, heated kiss. He tries not to think about the relief in Geoff's eyes, the sweet sigh escaping his throat. He tries not to notice how glad Geoff seems about being cut off like that. It's easier.

⬩

Daud decides to show up early in the morning the next day. Slackjaw and Geoff are just finishing their breakfast when Daud barges in without knocking, his little Whaler in tow.

"Well, well, look who the cat dragged in," Slackjaw mutters, taking a sip of his tea.

"Had things to do," Daud says. "What do you want?"

Slackjaw pushes his plate away, the anger he'd managed to bottle yesterday escaping his control. "Who's Jindosh's dealer?" he asks.

Daud shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "Why?"

"I need you to find the guy and make an example out of him, if you catch my drift," Slackjaw explains, tightening his grip over his mug.

Daud frowns, but before he responds to that order, Thomas takes a step forward, drawing everyone's attention. His eyes are ice-cold, deadly, his usual kind smile gone, and suddenly it's so easy to imagine the things he must've done in the past, the crimes he's committed as a Whaler.

"I know that man," Thomas says and his voice is just as cold and dangerous as his gaze. "He goes by the name of Declan, works by the docks near Drapers Ward. I can take care of it." He turns to Daud, whose frown deepens. "Please," Thomas says, his eyes thawing just the tiniest bit.

He's fiercely determined and even Slackjaw who barely knows him can tell he won't back down on this. So it's hardly surprising when Daud lets out an exasperated sigh and looks away.

"Don't make it a spectacle," he barks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Thomas bows his head, his poem-worthy mouth curling into a smile. "Noted," he says with a warm, tender note to his voice. And then he's gone, leaving nothing but a flash of sickly green that fades within seconds.

Daud grinds his teeth, looking back to Slackjaw. "Is that all?" he growls.

Slackjaw shakes his head, glancing at Geoff, who sighs, putting down his fork and knife.

"I'll see if the materials Jindosh requested are here," Geoff says, standing up from the table. "I have a feeling Sokolov will try to interfere with it."

Slackjaw smiles at him gratefully, Daud merely raises a brow, sitting down stiffly in the chair Geoff just vacated. They both wait until the door clicks shut.

"So?" Daud asks, taking a crumpet from one of the plates and tearing a bite-sized piece. "What is it?"

Slackjaw finishes his tea in one big sip and refills his mug right away, offering some to Daud as well. The Knife shakes his head in refusal.

"I want you to become my Spymaster," Slackjaw says, carefully stirring a spoonful of sugar into his tea.

Daud freezes with another bite of the crumpet on the way to his mouth. His surprise is almost comical, but Slackjaw doesn't feel like laughing. He really wants Daud to take this job.

"I'm the Knife of Dunwall," Daud says after a while, putting the crumpet down. "The killer of the Empress. Have you lost your damn mind?"

Slackjaw shrugs. "No one needs to know your real name," he says. "I could make Thomas the official Spymaster to keep your identity secret if you prefer."

Daud huffs, shaking his head, and though it's not a final answer on his part, it makes Slackjaw panic all the same.

"You want to get out of Dunwall," he says, leaning forward so that he's eye-to-eye with Daud, resisting the urge to grab the Knife by the wrists and pull. "You want to start new with a clean slate. I know you do. Don't you see that I'm giving you a chance to do just that, leave this damn city and your past behind?"

Daud chuckles, it's a grim sound that has nothing to do with happiness or amusement. "Let's say I agree and come with you," he says slowly. "Let's say I take Thomas with me, leaving Dunwall and my past behind. How do you think he's gonna interpret it?" Daud asks, meeting Slackjaw's gaze, his eyes grey like rain clouds.

Slackjaw shakes his head. "He'll be glad to come with you. That boy is head over heels for you."

The corner of Daud's mouth twitches. "Yeah," he grinds out. "He'll think I feel the same, that I'm offering him... a life he's dreamt of."

For a moment Slackjaw is so taken aback that all he can do is stare with his mouth hanging open. "Wait, you... _don't_ feel the same?" he says eventually. "I was sure that..." He waves a hand in an incomprehensible gesture.

Daud snorts so mirthlessly that it hurts. "Come on, Slackjaw, I know the city has been talking," he says. "I have no interest in sex," he continues, picking up his half-finished crumpet. "Never had. And it's not ever going to change."

"So?" Slackjaw frowns. "I don't see how that's relevant."

Daud rolls his eyes. "Thomas isn't like me, he's like everyone else, like you, like Sally, like Lizzie fucking Stride."

"So?" Slackjaw repeats stubbornly.

If looks could kill, Daud would’ve certainly murdered him with this one. "So, let's say I take him to Tyvia with me. Let's say we start a new life, admit our feelings, and whatnot. He'll want to have sex with me, eventually. I will not want that, though."

"I still don't see how that's a problem," Slackjaw says, taking out his cigarette case. "The boy has two perfectly good hands, and if that's not enough, he can just fuck somebody else? Doesn't have to be you. Have you even talked about it, or are you just jumping to conclusions?"

From the sudden anger contorting Daud's face, he can tell it's the latter. Slackjaw rolls his eyes, picking up a cigarette and lighting it up.

"Seriously," he sighs, taking a drag. "It almost sounds like you just can't stand the thought of actually being, you know, happy."

"What about your little guard?" Daud asks, his eyes burning with righteous anger. Slackjaw flinches despite himself, it's barely noticeable, but Daud is a born predator, he can always spot weakness. "Have you talked about your move to Tyvia? Or are you just jumping to conclusions, because you can't stand the thought of being happy?"

Slackjaw squashes his cigarette, feeling bile rising to his throat. "Get out," he barks. Daud only chuckles, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, making no move to leave. "Get. Out," Slackjaw repeats, hoisting himself up and towering over the Knife.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Daud spits out, standing up as well. "Thank you for this conversation, it was truly illuminating."

He vanishes into thin air, a split second before the heavy metal tea kettle hits him.

⬩

Slackjaw spends the rest of the day trying to avoid Geoff, which is not easy, considering that Geoff is supposed to act as his goddamn protector.

He's furious with Daud for being such an ungrateful bastard and turning it all against him. He's furious with Jindosh for making so much progress so quickly. He's furious with Corvo and Sokolov for leaving him alone when he'd gladly get in a fight with someone.

He's furious with himself for being a damn coward, too scared to actually have a talk with Geoff, get a definite answer, whatever it may be.

The evening rolls around and things don't magically get better, the Many-Eyed God doesn't show him a quick and easy way out of this, and by the time they get served dinner, Slackjaw is still fuming, his hands shaking with barely suppressed anger. Geoff keeps trying to make small-talk, but Slackjaw's so unresponsive that he gives up after a while. They eat the rest of their meal in a tense silence and as soon as they're done and it feels more or less appropriate, Slackjaw pours himself a whisky, downing it in a single gulp.

"Alright," Geoff says, his voice strained and a tad higher than normal. "Are we going to talk about it, or?"

The whisky seems to freeze in Slackjaw's stomach. "Talk about what?" he rasps, tightening his fingers over the tumbler.

Geoff sighs, standing up from the table and beginning to stack up plates. He likes to keep his hands busy when he's stressed out. "I don't know," Geoff snorts, "why are you so angry, for example?"

"I'm not angry," Slackjaw mutters, pouring himself more whiskey and looking away, just so he doesn't see Geoff rolling his eyes.

"Fine. Agitated. Upset. Disappointed. Whatever you wanna call it," Geoff says, shoving a pile of plates and cutlery into the dumbwaiter.

"I'm not—" Slackjaw starts, but Geoff cuts him off immediately.

"He didn't take the job, did he?"

"What?"

Geoff sighs. "Daud," he says in a gentle tone. "He didn't take the job."

Slackjaw downs his whiskey, just so that he has something to blame his expression on. He thought Geoff was talking about _them_ , not—.

"Yeah," he wheezes. "Yeah, he did not."

Geoff wipes his hands on a napkin and sits down on the couch next to Slackjaw, his expression is one of gentle compassion, his gaze wonderfully soft, and gods, it makes Slackjaw want to cry. How is he supposed to live without this?

"I'm sorry," Geoff says, pulling Slackjaw into a hug.

Slackjaw snorts. "It's fine. You didn't like the idea anyway."

Geoff clicks his tongue, sliding one hand into the hair at the back of Slackjaw's neck. "No, but you wanted him to take that job and it's your court at the end of the day," he says, shrugging ever so slightly.

And it's true, isn't it? It _is_ Slackjaw's court. But said like this, it sounds just bad, like Geoff wants nothing to do with it, like he's going to stay in Dunwall, which was to be expected, of course, but still—

"Jindosh has already started building that machine," Geoff says.

"I know, I went to see him earlier today," Slackjaw says, closing his eyes. "He says he should be done in two weeks at most but will try to finish earlier."

Geoff's exhale is a little shaky, his embrace a bit tight, but his voice perfectly steady, when he says, "Daud still has some time to change his mind. Maybe he needs to sleep on it. Or talk it through with Thomas."

Something dies inside Slackjaw at the sound of these words. It's not a violent death, it feels more like a wilting flower, a tree shedding its leaves, a final drop spilling out of a bottle. He thinks it might be his hope.

"He taught that dealer a lesson, by the way," Geoff says, his tone light and airy, as if he didn't notice the change, the only thing giving him away being the slight tremor in his shoulders, as he pulls Slackjaw closer.

**iii.**

The next few days are tense, to say the least. Daud and his little Whaler are gone, Sokolov apparently hadn't shown up at the Tower since his last talk with Slackjaw, Corvo and his daughter have to sack half of the Parliament because the nobles are getting too cocky, the weather is awful, and Slackjaw and Geoff carry on, as if everything was in perfect order, except that nothing is, and it's only a matter of time before one of them blows up.

Geoff seems sick, pale as a ghost, and oddly jittery, the shadows under his eyes growing deeper and darker by day, his hands trembling. He looks like he's on the verge of tears, but claims he's doing perfectly fine, every time Slackjaw asks.

Funnily enough, the only one who’s truly doing fine is Jindosh, who works day and night, barely sleeping, poring over sketches and calculations, conducting the team of workers Corvo gave him so that he could finish his creation as soon as possible. The machine is still a mystery — odd shapes woven out of wicker and feathers, skeletons of cold metal, little wheels and cogs turning and whirring, boxes full of whale oil and seawater, strange structures of whalebone and riverkrust pearls — but it's coming together, faster than anyone expected, so fast even Corvo seems a little concerned.

"Doesn't he need some rest?" Corvo asks, once Emily Kaldwin has appointed a new Parliament, and he can finally meet with Slackjaw to discuss the progress.

Slackjaw shrugs and winces. Jindosh definitely needs rest. But he'd stopped feeling hunger and fatigue ages ago, he's alert and ready to go at all times, keeping his brilliant mind busy, so that it doesn't go mad from the lack of sleep and sufficient nutrition. How the fuck does that work is beyond Slackjaw, really. How much longer is it going to work is what he worries about at night.

"I guess he's really excited," Slackjaw says, smiling half-heartedly. "He didn't have access to a proper lab and funding in a while."

Corvo bites down on his lip, looking into the window, away from Slackjaw and Geoff. "I'm sorry for lashing out when you brought Jindosh here," he says. "I should've given you the benefit of the doubt."

Slackjaw smiles again, this time in earnest. "Thanks, Corvo. I appreciate that. So you trust me now?" he asks with a jokingly mischievous note to it.

Corvo snorts softly. "I don't know," he says, shrugging. "I'm not sure I do. But I believe you don't want to fuck me over if that's a consolation?"

Slackjaw throws up his hands, smirking. "It's as good as it gets, I s'pose. I'll take it."

Corvo laughs again, turning back to him, his eyes dead serious, even though he's still smiling. "Thanks for proving me wrong, Slackjaw," he says. "And for calling me out on my bullshit. No one really does that anymore and I don't think it's good for me. Anyway," he adds louder, clapping his hands together, "I'll be going, we still have a bunch of decrees to go through and the Morlish delegation should arrive before dinner. I wish you a peaceful evening, gentlemen."

He twirls around and he's almost at the door when Geoff jumps up from his seat and says, "Corvo. A moment, please."

Corvo stops, glancing back over his shoulder, frowning when he notices the pallor of Geoff's face, the way his eyes burn almost feverishly. "Yes?"

Geoff takes a deep breath, spreading his fingertips as if trying to steady himself, keep his balance. And then—

"I'd like to resign from my position."

The world freezes for a second and then breaks into a fury of white and green feathers, fills with a cackle and a song Slackjaw can't understand. And then it's back to normal and Corvo blinks slowly, tilting his head to the side.

"You mean, you want to get back to the City Watch?" he asks.

Geoff shakes his head, his face set in determination, his eyes perfectly clear at the long last. "No, I want to quit altogether. I want to leave Dunwall."

Corvo's mouth hangs open as he looks at Geoff and then Slackjaw, who tries his best to not look as shocked as he feels. "You want to...?" Corvo mumbles. "But they don't have the Protectors in Tyvia."

"The legislation can be changed," Slackjaw says quickly, seeing Geoff's panicked gaze. "I was thinking of creating such a position. If the Empress allows, of course."

Corvo looks at him for a moment, before nodding. "I'm sure she'll allow it," he says. "It's a great loss for Dunwall," he adds, glancing at Geoff. "But I won't keep you here against your will. You're free to go, Curnow. Thank you for all the years of loyal service. Tyvia is lucky to win a soldier like yourself."

Geoff swallows hard, bowing his head. He looks like he's about to cry once more. Corvo forces a smile, says his goodbyes one more time, and leaves, the door shutting behind him quietly.

In the thick, tense silence that follows, Slackjaw slowly gets up from his chair, standing at an arm's length away from Geoff, who watches him with wide, brilliantly blue eyes, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

"You want to... come with me?" Slackjaw whispers.

Geoff nods. "If you'll have me," he replies, even more quietly.

The relief, the sheer happiness these words evoke nearly knock Slackjaw off his feet. His knees wobble as he takes a step closer, cupping Geoff's face between his hands, his vision blurred by tears that fill his eyes. His breath trembles, his heart hammers in his chest, and when he kisses Geoff, he feels like he's about to pass out. Geoff lets out a small sigh and kisses back, pulling Slackjaw in by the suspenders.

To have the man he loves declare his willingness to follow him across the sea, to share not only the Fugues but the entire life with him is so beautiful it doesn't feel possible. Slackjaw doesn't deserve this, any of it — the throne, the fresh start, Geoff. So he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Geoff's.

"You've worked so hard to be where you are," he whispers, his thumbs brushing across Geoff's cheekbones. "Do you really want to ditch it?"

Geoff nods without hesitation, tilting his head back so he can look Slackjaw in the eye. "I've been thinking about it for a long time," he says, his voice strained with emotion, but determined, sure. "It's not a decision made on a whim."

They sit down facing each other, Geoff's cheeks flushed pink, his fingers clutching Slackjaw's, but his eyes cool and serious.

"Nothing ever changes in Dunwall, except for people," he says with a note of bitterness. "Everyone comes here full of hope and good intentions, but in the end, all we do is grow hateful and cynical. I spent most of my life trying to change something about the world, but it was never enough. Where I patched one hole, three new appeared. And when I asked for better tools, they told me it was pointless anyway, so why bother."

He chuckles grimly, shaking his head and squeezing Slackjaw's hand. "The only time I felt like I was actually doing something right was when we tried to help each other out, you know, before the Plague."

Slackjaw smiles, nodding. It was a good time, wasn't it? They actually got shit done then. The change wasn't big, but it was there, it was palpable. Geoff sighs and it's a heavy, teary sound.

"I was actually happy then," he admits, looking away with a small, self-conscious smirk on his face. "I felt like I had a purpose, like what I did actually meant something, and, well, I had you." He looks into Slackjaw's face, his bottom lip quivering as if he was about to cry. "You were the only person, who actually supported what I did, who encouraged me, helped me. And—."

He lets out a soft, strangled laugh and then takes a deep breath, straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, as if bracing himself for an attack. Slackjaw doesn't dare to say anything yet, he knows how much it costs Geoff to say all those things out loud.

"I love you, Slackjaw," Geoff says, his tone even, face unmoving. Slackjaw squeezes his hand, biting down on his lip to keep from mumbling something nonsensical. "And yes, it's part of the reason why I want to come with you. I'm sick of missing you and can't even imagine living so far away from you. But I'm not doing this just out of love and I want you to know that," he says seriously, with the tiniest hint of anxiety, as if he expected Slackjaw to be hurt or offended by it. "Dunwall doesn't change and it never will, because those in charge just don't care. But you do, you want the world to be a better place and you work hard to make it such. And I know that when you seize the power in Tyvia, you'll use it to do some good. And I want to help, I want to make a difference at last. In whatever way I can. As your protector, your counselor, or consort, doesn't matter. As long as you'll have me."

And finally, it's Slackjaw's turn to speak, to make declarations and offers. But instead,

"Consort?" he repeats breathlessly.

Geoff's blush deepens into dark red as he pulls his hands away from Slackjaw's grasp and shrugs sharply. "It's just an idea— I mean, one of many possibilities, I read that it's legal in Tyvia, and just— well, I just wanted to say that the position doesn't matter at all, I just want to help, and—"

Slackjaw murmurs, pressing his fingertips against Geoff's lips, cutting him off. "I'd like that. I love you, too," he says softly, looking Geoff in the eye. "I should've said that sooner, I know, but I was too scared I’d lose you.” He smirks, blinking away tears. “I love you, Captain Curnow, you beautiful bastard. I love you so fucking much and I can't wait to change the world with you."

Geoff lets out a laugh that melts into a sob, as he wraps his arms around Slackjaw's neck and presses his face in the crook of it.

"It's really gonna be a court of misfits, huh?" he says after a moment. "A crime lord as a prince, a watchman as a consort, an assassin as spymaster."

Slackjaw chuckles, hugging him tighter. "Everything but the last one," he says.

"He'll come around," Geoff says with conviction. "Just give him some more time."

**iv.**

When Slackjaw wakes up the next morning, he’s choking on the sudden fear that it was all just a dream. He’s alone in the bed, Geoff’s pillow fluffed up and cool, suggesting that it’s been a while since he got up. The clock points quarter to eight.

Slackjaw takes a deep breath, trying to slow down his hammering heart. He rolls out of the bed, sliding his feet into the fluffy slippers and throwing on a bathrobe. His fingers are not steady enough to handle all the buttons of his usual clothing.

He expects to find Geoff at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, but he’s not there. Their apartment is silent, the table and dumbwaiter empty, the window still cracked open. It’s as if Geoff woke up and left immediately without stopping to close it or have a drink.

Slackjaw swallows hard, wrapping the robe tighter around his chest and shoulders. He slumps into a chair, anxiety closing his airway. Geoff has never left like this before. He either waited for Slackjaw to wake up, or at least left a note. This time, however, he’s just gone, and Slackjaw can’t help but think it’s because he’s changed his mind.

The dumbwaiter’s bell breaks him out of his stupor. He gets up and unloads it — two sets of plates, cups, and cutlery, a pot of coffee, a kettle of tea, eggs with Serkonan tomatoes, Tyvian cottage cheese, yoghurt, a plate of fresh fruit, bread and butter, and crispy fried bacon. Then he slumps back into his chair, staring at the set table, feeling a sucking pit in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.

It’s only a couple of minutes before the lock clicks softly and Geoff barges into the room, flushed and winded as if he ran through the Tower.

“Morning,” he says, smiling brilliantly and Slackjaw could swear it makes him look ten years younger. “Sorry I’m late, it was a lot more paperwork than I expected. Outsider’s eyes, Slackjaw, it’s freezing in here, why didn’t you close the window?” he asks, crossing the room to finally do it. “Are you alright?” he adds, turning to Slackjaw with a soft, concerned expression on his face.

Slackjaw nods, taking a desperate breath through his nose and stretching his arms towards Geoff, who steps closer, allowing Slackjaw to wrap himself around his waist and squeeze tight.

“What is it?” Geoff asks gently, brushing Slackjaw’s messy hair away from his forehead.

“Thought you changed your mind,” Slackjaw mumbles, tightening his grip on Geoff’s jacket. It’s surprisingly soft.

Geoff sighs, shaking his head. “And what, left you without a word?” he says. “Come on, you know me better than this. I thought about writing you a note, actually, but I was sure that I’d get back before you wake up, so I didn’t in the end. Sorry about it. But hey, at least I made it in time for breakfast!”

Slackjaw chuckles, releasing Geoff from his embrace, remembering that the eggs and bacon are getting cold. Geoff smiles at him, flicking the tip of his nose with a finger. He looks so much brighter and softer than yesterday, so much less rigid, and Slackjaw can’t tell why, until his brain finally registers that the jacket Geoff’s wearing is not the royal blue of his uniform, it’s an earthy brown of a civilian jacket. He blinks.

“Your uniform,” he mumbles, running a hand over the soft tweed.

“Gave it back,” Geoff says, pulling out a chair to sit down next to Slackjaw. “Uniform, badge, sword, and pistol. You’d think all you have to do is to sign a resignation and give back your stuff but turns out there’s a whole lot of paperwork I haven’t accounted for,” he adds, pouring himself a cup of coffee and then a cup of tea for Slackjaw. “Took me forty minutes. Twenty to get to my apartment, get some civilian clothes and weapons, and an hour to get back here. But it’s out of the way now.”

“So it’s official?” Slackjaw says, wrapping his cold fingers around the cup. Geoff smiles from above his coffee.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I’m no longer an officer. Feels weird to say it, not gonna lie.”

“Good weird?” Slackjaw asks, uncertainty seeping into his tone.

Geoff rolls his eyes, reaching out to put some eggs and bacon on his plate, and grabs a piece of bread that he promptly dips in the yolk. “No, I’m just realising that I’ve made a terrible mistake, deciding to run away with the biggest dumbass in Dunwall,” he says and takes a bite. He chuckles when he catches Slackjaw’s offended expression. “Good weird,” he says softer. “I feel like I’m twenty again, I’m so excited.”

Slackjaw has never seen Geoff this animated, this bright and hopeful, this _alive_. He smiles, crookedly, blinking fast, because he’s just so full of raw emotion that he might explode if he's not careful. Geoff smiles back and it’s the most brilliant smile Slackjaw has ever seen, one that takes his breath away and fills his chest with molten light. Geoff takes him by the hand and plants a small kiss on the inside of his wrist, before letting go and loading Slackjaw’s plate with food.

“Come on, the eggs are getting cold,” he says so matter-of-factly that Slackjaw can’t help but laugh, pulling him in for a quick kiss.

“I love you, Curnow,” he says, brushing his nose against Geoff’s.

“Love you back, Your Grace,” Geoff replies, evenly. "Now, may we, please, eat something? I'm starving."

⬩

Shortly after lunch, Slackjaw decides to pay a visit to Jindosh. Geoff stays in their suite, poring over a compendium of Tyvian grammar, repeating irregular verbs under his breath. Slackjaw kisses the top of his head before leaving, and then makes his way through the maze of Tower’s corridors, feeling so light it almost surprises him he’s not actually floating above the dusty carpets.

He finds Jindosh slouching over a brightly lit desk, a set of minuscule tools at his side, as he works on some filigree mechanism. Work seems to transform him, take away the gangly, broken kid and replace him with an artist, whose every movement is graceful and precise, a stroke of a genius carefully creating a masterpiece.

“I should be done in five days,” Jindosh says, without glancing in his direction. He must have an acute hearing to have heard Slackjaw approach. “I’ll need a big ship to transport it,” Jindosh adds, leaning back to adjust his magnifying glass. His spine cracks as it straightens. Jindosh must’ve spent a long time in his previous position. “I need space to assemble it and a ramp to get it on deck and off the ship.”

“I’ll talk to Corvo,” Slackjaw says. “Do you need people to help you with that?” he asks.

Jindosh shakes his head sharply, the upper part of his spine cracking softly, as well. “I can do that on my own,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion.

Slackjaw might be his Prince, in the grand scheme of things, but this workshop is Jindosh’s little kingdom, he has the final say here.

“Are you sure?” Slackjaw asks nonetheless.

Jindosh glances at him over his shoulder, it’s the look of a viper right before it strikes. “Yes,” he says forcefully, moving back to his magnifying glass. “I don’t trust anyone with it. It takes skill to put it together. I’ll do it on my own.”

“Alright,” Slackjaw agrees, smiling. He likes Jindosh like this — sharp, deadly. He takes a snuffbox out of his pouch and sets it on the table, next to Jindosh’s tools.

“Thanks,” Jindosh says.

For the first time, since they met, he doesn’t immediately pocket the snuffbox, instead letting it sit next to the leather tool wrap. It’s a small, yet monumental thing, a clear sign of trust. Slackjaw smiles.

“Anything else?” Jindosh asks, again slouching over the tiny construction of clockworks.

“Try to sleep sometimes, people are talking,” Slackjaw says, trying to soften the edges of this order.

Jindosh snorts. “Pick your battles, Your Grace,” he says, “I can either eat or sleep consistently, don’t expect me to do both.”

Slackjaw sighs. Since their first meeting, he hasn’t directly ordered Jindosh to eat, but he made sure the meals the kitchen sends to Jindosh are as dense as possible, stripped of all the filler foods, effectively forcing him to pick some more nutritious options. Jindosh must’ve noticed, but didn’t comment, complying silently, either as a gesture of goodwill or in fear that Slackjaw would force him to eat again. He takes a few bites off every plate that’s sent to him, which isn’t much, but it means he’s eating consistently, and it shows. He’s still too thin, but his complexion looks a lot more healthy already.

“Have you ever heard of people who lost their minds from the lack of sleep?” Slackjaw says, changing his strategy. Jindosh doesn’t care much for his body, but he prizes his intellect above everything else. “Aren’t you worried it’s gonna happen to you, too?”

“Oh, it will eventually,” Jindosh agrees, scrunching his nose as he leans closer to his clockwork, carefully screwing something together. “I can work like this right now because I’m young, but with age, my mind will most certainly deteriorate.”

Slackjaw doesn’t like how flippant he is about it. “You could prevent that by, you know, sleeping like a normal person,” he suggests.

“I get enough sleep to keep my mind in optimal condition for another—,” Jindosh pauses and clicks his tongue, tilting his head, “—twenty years?”

“Right,” Slackjaw says. “And then? By the time you’re fifty, you’ll be half-mad.”

“I’m not gonna live till my fifties,” Jindosh says with the softest hint of laughter to his voice. “In fact, I’ll be surprised if I reach my forties. I’ve been damaging my heart, liver, and kidneys since I was seven, Your Grace, and you know as well as I do that this damage is irreparable.”

“ _Seven_ ,” Slackjaw echoes, feeling sick all of a sudden.

Jindosh hums in confirmation, putting down his screwdriver and picking up tweezers. “Unless I find a way to forge myself a mechanical heart, I won’t ever have to worry about my deteriorating mind,” he says brightly. “And I have no idea how to forge a functional heart, in case you’re wondering. So how about you let me sleep my usual three hours, and in exchange, I’ll do my best to eat more, so that you know you did your best to save me?”

Slackjaw sighs heavily. “Fine,” he says, forcing a smile. “But when you do find a way to make that mechanical heart, you’ll start sleeping more.”

Jindosh chuckles, putting down the tweezers and turning to face him, his mouth curled into an amused smirk. “ _When_?” he repeats.

Slackjaw shrugs, smiling more honestly. “They say you’re the most brilliant mind in the Empire,” he says. “And you’re Tyvian. There’s no impossible for us.”

Jindosh laughs again before meeting Slackjaw’s eyes. “Alright, deal,” he says, shrugging. “When I make that heart, I’ll start sleeping at least five hours.”

Five hours is still very little. But it will have to do.

“Deal,” Slackjaw says, extending a hand. Jindosh shakes it firmly.

⬩

“Five days?” Corvo repeats, turning away from the window. “So fast?”

Slackjaw shrugs. “You wanted me to hurry, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but…” Corvo pulls his lip between his teeth and knits his brows. “I just didn’t expect him to build that thing so fast. Are you sure it will work? And that it’ll be enough? You have one shot at this, Slackjaw, if you blew it…”

Slackjaw takes a deep breath and bites his tongue before he comments on Corvo’s motivations. There’s no point in fighting about it. Corvo is a broken man who’s been betrayed one too many times, he won’t trust him, no matter what Slackjaw does. And Slackjaw doesn’t need Corvo’s trust or approval, not anymore.

“I won’t blow it,” he says firmly. “I have the utmost confidence in Jindosh. And in myself. It’s my land, my people. They’ve been waiting for my return and they will welcome me as they should.”

Corvo’s eyes dart to his face. Slackjaw meets them and immediately spots a carefully hidden worry — what if Slackjaw decides to fuck him over, after all? What if he takes over Tyvia and turns it against the Empire? Slackjaw knows how much Gristol depends on Tyvian metal and precious stones, its produce, and livestock. He knows Gristol’s weaknesses better than any Tyvian leader. He knows Corvo’s weaknesses better than any of his adversaries.

Corvo, on the other hand, still doesn’t know Slackjaw at all.

“I gave you my word,” Slackjaw says flatly. “I will keep it.”

He doesn’t wait for any half-hearted apology, doesn’t stay to watch Corvo cringe and squirm. If Corvo has anything important to say, he’ll say it in a note.

⬩

Corvo ends up lending them a military ship that Kirin deems ‘good enough’. Slackjaw thanks him dryly and leaves, before Corvo attempts any small-talk. With just three days till their leave to Tyvia, he’s getting increasingly stressed, even though everything is going well. They have a ship, Kirin is right on schedule with his machine, Geoff not only isn’t leaving him but instead puts all his effort into learning as much Tyvian as he possibly can. And yet, something is missing in all of this, and Slackjaw tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t know what it is.

But there’s no way to pretend when Daud slips into Slackjaw’s apartment moments after Geoff leaves to get his sword sharpened. Slackjaw looks at the Knife, the unreadable curve of his mouth, his cold-steel eyes, and though he tries to play it cool, he knows there’s hope written all over his face. He hates it. He hates needing Daud to take that damn job so badly, hates that he’s so affected by Daud’s refusal. He’s the voiddamned Prince of Tyvia, Daud should be begging _him_ for this job, not the other way around.

“I thought about your offer,” Daud says, without meeting his eyes, and it’s a small act of mercy that infuriates Slackjaw even more. “I might change my mind. But I have some conditions.”

“What conditions?” Slackjaw barks and the fury just manages to cover up his pathetic eagerness to agree to anything, as long as it will make Daud take the job.

The Knife sits down at the table, still averting his eyes, his face as if set in stone, perfectly composed, nearly motionless. His hands are resting in his lap, hidden from Slackjaw’s view, and he doesn’t like that.

“Thomas will be your official Spymaster,” Daud says. “I will share his workload, but I’ll be acting from the shadows.”

“What else?” Slackjaw asks. He’d suggested this solution himself, Daud knew well he’d agree. It wasn’t really a condition, it was merely a warm-up.

The very corner of Daud’s lips twitches, Slackjaw can’t tell if it’s amusement or annoyance.

“I will take some of my old Whalers with me,” the Knife says. “They’re excellent spies, most of them Tyvian in origin, they will do great work for you.”

It sounds like he’s doing Slackjaw a favour and he is, in a way. The Whalers really were excellent spies, true masters of their craft. But Slackjaw’s no fool, he knows better than to think Daud is giving him an apology gift.

“Why?” he asks and smiles, seeing Daud’s pinched brows.

“What do you mean, why?” Daud asks, his tone perfectly neutral.

Slackjaw’s no fool and he’s not falling for Daud’s studied indifference. They’re two of a kind, Daud and him, they don’t offer people a move across the Empire without a reason. A good reason.

“You disbanded your gang,” Slackjaw says. “You let them roam the streets, aimless and vulnerable, for five years. They don’t owe you a thing. Why would they obey your order and serve me?”

Daud finally meets his eyes and his gaze is cold as ice. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Slackjaw continues,

“You realised it’s unfair that you’ll start a new happy life, while they rot here in this garbage pile you left them in, so now you want me to give them a chance, as well. Kind of funny that the only reason why they won’t resent you till the end of their days will be my mercy, dontcha think?”

Daud’s gaze is still icy, but it loses some of its sharpness as he looks away. “I shouldn’t have done it,” he says. “Not like that, without making sure they’d all be alright. I messed up, made a mistake, and yes, now I’m asking you to fix it for me. I won’t take the credit for it, though. They will know who really saved them from this city. And so will I.”

“I’ll take them,” Slackjaw says. “You knew I would. What is your actual condition, though? What is that one thing you’re not sure I’d do and that you really need me to?”

Daud lets out a heavy sigh, putting his hands on the table. They’re bare. The soft leather gloves no longer hide the calloused, scarred skin or the viciously black mark at the back of Daud’s left hand.

“You see it,” Daud says, curling his left fist.

Slackjaw frowns. “Of course I do, everybody does.”

“You see it when I use it,” Daud says, looking into his face, his eyes somehow more terrifying now that they thawed at last.

“You mean other people don’t?” Slackjaw asks, completely baffled. Daud shakes his head. “But— I don’t have any ties to the Outsider. How is that possible?”

Daud shrugs, seemingly disinterested. “I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter. What’s important is that you can tell when I’m using magic.”

“And how’s that relevant?” Slackjaw asks cautiously. He can already tell he won’t like Daud’s actual condition, that what Daud will ask of him will be far more than a simple act of kindness.

Daud takes a deep breath, glancing at the mark. “I’m tired of playing his games,” he says eventually. “If I am to start a new life in Tyvia, I want it to be a life without him. Once you get your throne, I’m giving up my magic. So if you thought I’d use it as your Spymaster, I won’t.”

“I never expected you to,” Slackjaw says. “And I respect your decision. What’s the catch, though?”

Daud pulls up one corner of his mouth in a crooked, grim smile that makes Slackjaw feel cold all of a sudden.

“The catch is that if you ever see me use this,” Daud says, holding up his marked fist, “you’ll kill me.” He’s serious, so serious that it sends a shiver up Slackjaw’s spine. “I’d ask Thomas, but he won’t have it in him to murder me.”

Slackjaw drags a hand across his face, exhaling sharply. He knows Daud is right — Thomas wouldn’t ever hurt him, even if it was the only way to save his own life. Daud cannot trust him with this task. But why does he need to trust anyone with it, why is he—

“What are you saying, that he’s going to, what, possess you?” he asks, casting a fretful look at Daud’s hand. The Outsider is said to be a cruel god, but would he truly chase Daud all the way to Tyvia, ruin his life in petty revenge for him helping the child of another deity?

Daud shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t understand him, never did. Maybe he’ll let me go and won’t think twice about me. Maybe he’ll follow me to the end of the world and destroy me from the inside. I don’t know. But I want to be ready for the worst. I want to be sure he won’t be able to use me.”

Slackjaw doesn’t know the Outsider. But he knows those marked by him — Granny Rags, Daud, Corvo. He’s watched them all for years, deteriorating, growing wicked and paranoid, dangerous. He likes to think Granny Rags chose to become a monster, but he doesn’t know that. She might’ve struggled just like Daud does, sought help, and failed to secure it. And Corvo… He might’ve turned bitter and cynical because of all the betrayal and the power he wasn’t ready for. But it might’ve been a god poisoning his mind. Slackjaw has no way of knowing.

Perhaps Daud is simply paranoid and there’s nothing to worry about. Perhaps he’s right in his suspicions and the Outsider will try to reclaim what is rightfully his one day. Whatever the case, Daud needs someone to reassure him, promise him a swift and merciful death if need be, promise him that they wouldn’t let him hurt Thomas. And Slackjaw never goes back on his word. Slackjaw is another bird of a feather, someone Daud can trust with this.

“Alright,” Slackjaw says. “You have my word, Spymaster.”

Daud’s eyelids flutter closed for a moment, a single shaky breath, and then he looks at Slackjaw, perfectly composed as he bows his head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

⬩

The day after that, they have lunch together — Slackjaw, Geoff, Days, Thomas, and eleven other ex-Whalers. Most of them are indeed Tyvian, with distinctly northern features, lilting vowels, and harsh consonants. They all accept him as their Prince without a single question, so quickly it's almost concerning.

Thomas does his very best to keep the conversation alive, but his efforts are all in naught because Daud and Geoff are having some sort of a stare-down, looking at each other with such murderous expressions it seems a miracle neither of them has dropped dead yet.

And then, at long last, Geoff puts his cutlery down and hisses something in a language that Slackjaw can only assume is Serkonan, judging by the fact that Daud is the only one who seems to understand.

The Knife cracks a lopsided smile and replies in the same tongue, holding Geoff's gaze without blinking until Geoff looks away at last.

"Alright," he says, switching back to Gristolian.

"Glad we had this conversation," Daud replies in a perfectly blank tone. "Now, I believe you wanted us to do something for you," he says, looking at Slackjaw, who nods.

"I have a letter for Sally," he says. "And I need the press to release the news of Vsevo— of my father's death tomorrow."

Daud raises a brow, seemingly surprised by the second order. Slackjaw shrugs.

"Corvo wants to release it after we leave so that we make it to Tyvia before it reaches them," he explains. "But I need them to know. I want it to be fresh news, but I want it to be known."

Daud narrows his eyes ever so slightly but doesn't ask any questions and it’s something Slackjaw appreciates more than he can express.

"Alright," Daud says simply. "Consider it done."

**v.**

The ship seems even larger from the deck.

Slackjaw stands near the ramp, wrapped snugly in a thick overcoat, surveying the boarding process. The crew is getting the vessel ready to depart, Geoff roams the deck in a steady gait of someone who’s spent months on the sea, Daud and his band of Whalers disappeared somewhere in the belly of the ship before anyone took notice of them, Kirin keeps thrashing about like a trapped fly, yelling at the people carrying parts of his machine.

Amidst all the noise and commotion, Slackjaw spots two figures at the shore, their faces tipped upwards, trying to find him in the crowd. He sighs and slowly walks off the ship to exchange his last few words with Corvo and Sokolov. He doesn’t really want to talk to either of them, but he’s a prince, talking to people he has no wish to engage with is part of his job now.

“Corvo,” he says, bowing his head.

“Slackjaw,” Corvo replies, returning the gesture. “I wanted to wish you good luck,” he says in a solemn tone. “And apologise for all my suspicions. I know they’re unfounded.”

“Thanks.” Slackjaw smiles insincerely. “I’ll send the crew back with the news as soon as I have the situation under control,” he says. “I suppose we’ll see each other at my coronation?”

He extends a hand that Corvo shakes firmly, looking him in the eye.

“I believe so,” he says. “Until then, Your Grace,” he adds, patting Slackjaw awkwardly on the shoulder.

They exchange one more stiff nod and then Corvo’s turning around, walking away too briskly to hide his anxiety. Slackjaw doesn’t hold it against him. It’s nothing personal.

Instead, he turns to face Sokolov, who looks even older and frailer in the bright sunlight.

“We’ve had our differences,” Sokolov says, without meeting his eyes, his bony hands tugging at his beard. “I’ve said things I shouldn’t have, addressed you in ways no protocol would allow. You have every right to despise me and I’m sure you do.”

He makes a pause that Slackjaw would normally interpret as Sokolov waiting for him to deny this accusation. But this time Sokolov doesn’t seem to care about his opinion. This time, the pause is just a moment for him to collect his thoughts.

“I knew your parents, Your Grace, and I cared for them deeply,” Sokolov says, staring into the horizon, straight north, where miles away stretch the shores of Tyvia. “I know many think me a traitor, a dog of the Kaldwins, but my allegiance is to Tyvia first. To you. And I want you to know that, my Prince. Even if you despise me for the things I’ve said and done, I’m on your side, should you ever need me.”

Slackjaw nods curtly, fixing his gaze on the tips of his boots. He does despise Sokolov, but his allegiance still means a lot. Sokolov knew his parents, knew Tyvia as it used to be, and he cared about it, even after all the decades at the Imperial court. It feels good to have someone like him recognise Slackjaw as the true, rightful ruler.

“Am I anything like them?” he asks, keeping his eyes trained on his boots.

He hears Sokolov shift and chuckle under his breath. “No,” he says. “Not at all.”

Slackjaw winces and nods, straightening his back, gazing to the north as Sokolov before. “Just between the two of us,” he says in Tyvian, “do you actually think I can do this?”

“I have no doubt you will,” Sokolov replies without hesitation, with such conviction that Slackjaw turns to look at him. Sokolov is smiling in an odd, almost tender way. “You know the history. So tell me, my Prince, how many rulers are believed to have had the Many-Eyed God at their side?”

“Karol Topek and two of the Olaskirs, Yefim and Alexy, if I’m not mistaken,” Slackjaw replies without thinking.

“Well, there you go,” Sokolov says, smirking.

Slackjaw shakes his head, not understanding what Sokolov is getting at, but the old natural philosopher doesn’t explain anything, only shrugging slightly.

“I shall see you at your coronation, Your Grace,” he says, pressing his right palm to his heart and bowing as low as his back allows him.

Slackjaw nods and frowns as he watches Sokolov walk away. He’s turning the three names around in his mind and bitterness fills his mouth.

Karol Topek was the nation’s hero, the man that united Tyvia and made it into what it is today. Alexy Olaskir was the longest-ruling Emperor of the Isles. Yefim was the first Tyvian to ever take the Imperial throne. They were great leaders, exceptionally accomplished, universally loved. Slackjaw, on the other hand, is a criminal — a greedy, cynical child of the Dunwall sewers. He simply cannot compare to either of the Princes favoured by the Many-Eyed God.

And perhaps that’s why he hasn’t felt its presence in a while, why he can barely feel the crown against his temples anymore. Perhaps the Many-Eyed Bird realised it made a mistake and left Slackjaw to handle it all on his own.

“Your Grace, we’re ready to take off.” It’s one of the crew members, a tall red-haired woman.

Slackjaw takes a look at the ship, massive yet graceful, dark against the bright horizon. Geoff is leaning against the railing and even from the distance, Slackjaw can tell he’s smiling at him. If he focuses, he can still hear Kirin’s annoyed voice coming from the upper deck. He has a dozen excellent assassins and spies waiting for him below.

Even if the Many-Eyed God forsake him, he can still take back his country. He’s not alone. He’s not helpless.

He’s Aleksandr Vsevolodovich Korolev, third of his name, the rightful heir to the Tyvian throne and he will take it back, one way or another.

⬩

On the brink of the third day, they see Tyvia on the horizon.

Geoff is leaning against the railing with a bright, wonderful smile on his lips, the cold breeze tousling his hair. Daud’s face is as if carved in stone, arms crossed over his chest. Thomas is in the mess with the rest of the Whalers. Kirin in the hangar, putting his machine together. Slackjaw stares at his island slowly drawing nearer, feeling sea-sick and unbearably anxious.

In Dunwall it had all seemed so simple. Back there, he still thought himself the child of the Many-Eyed God. He saw it, listened to it, felt its presence anywhere he went, at all times. But now it’s gone, his mind is blank yet churring like the sea beneath their ship, and all that’s left is the faint pressure of the crown against his skin.

He doesn't need the Bird to take over the throne, it was never an actual part of his plan. But he expected his god to be with him when he faced Secretary Kalin, he expected to hear its voice in his ear, feel the feathered fingers against his face.

But if he has to go there on his own, he will.

He’s not a helpless child, he’s Prince Aleksandr the Third.

“We’ll be docking in an hour at most,” Daud says in this voice that sounds like metal grinding against metal. “I think it’s high time you tell us how you want to play it.”

Geoff turns around, pressing the small of his back against the cold bar of the railing, and looks at Slackjaw with a tender smile and unbridled curiosity. Not even he knows what Slackjaw has planned, and Slackjaw suspects it hurts him a little, even though he’s never said anything about it.

Slackjaw takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold air that leaves the taste of salt on his tongue. “Before I say anything, I want to make sure you remember that I have the final say in all of it,” he says.

Their reactions are very different. Daud rolls his eyes and sighs, lifting his face to the sky. Geoff observes Slackjaw’s face with eyes rounded in fear and tightly pressed lips.

“Slackjaw—” he starts, but Slackjaw presses his fingertips against Geoff’s mouth.

“Shh, let me speak first,” he says. Daud lowers his head and shoots them a look that seems vaguely annoyed and very tired. Slackjaw clears his throat. “I want everyone to stay on the ship,” he says as firmly as he can. “I will be the only one to go into the city.”

Geoff grabs him by the wrist and pulls his hand down, his eyes are burning with anger. “Have you lost your damn mind?” he hisses. “They will kill you on the spot, especially if they already heard the news of your father passing. You can’t do that!”

Daud only narrows his eyes. “I know you expect Jindosh’s machine to keep you safe, but you don’t know how effective it will really be, you didn’t have time to test it,” he says calmly. “You need some backup.”

Slackjaw shakes his head, looking into Geoff’s eyes, knowing it’s him he has to convince. Daud will accept his decision, whatever it is.

“I will not take my country by force,” Slackjaw says, holding Geoff’s gaze. “I won’t be spilling any blood. As long as I’m alone, no one will try to hurt me, they will know they can’t. That machine will keep me safe, I promise. Kirin knows what he’s doing. But you have to stay on the ship, until I have everything under control, alright?”

“No,” Geoff says immediately with fiery defiance. “No, there’s no way I’ll let you do something so reckless.”

“Geoff,” Slackjaw says and it’s a half-plea, half-warning. “They won’t hurt their Prince, but they will hurt a Gristolian soldier.”

“They will hurt us all unless we’re clever about it,” Geoff retorts. “I thought that machine was something to take us to the Citadel without drawing attention. There’s no way you can make it through the entire city, Slackjaw. They will fucking kill you.”

Slackjaw takes a deep breath and counts from ten backward. He understands Geoff’s worry, but Geoff isn’t Tyvian, he’s never spoken to the Many-Eyed God, and he doesn’t know what exactly Jindosh has created. Slackjaw will be safe on the streets of Dabokva, no one — not even Kalin’s Operators — will dare lay a finger on him. He’s sure of it.

“Geoff,” he says softly, reaching up to touch his face. “Do you trust me?”

Geoff closes his eyes, blowing out air through his nose with barely checked fury. “This is emotional blackmail,” he grinds out. “This isn’t fair, Slackjaw. I trust you. More than anyone. You know that. And you have no right—” He opens his eyes and they’re ice-cold. “This plan— This idea is just _mad_ —”

“It’s not,” Slackjaw insists, taking Geoff’s face between his hands and lowering his head so they’re eye-to-eye. “You don’t know Tyvia like I do, it’s nothing like Gristol or Serkonos, alright?”

“You don’t know it either!” Geoff yells, grabbing Slackjaw’s wrists and pulling them down sharply. “You left as a baby! All you know is stories that you claim a bird told you!”

The silence that follows rings in their ears. Daud looks away, doing his best to stay away from their spat. Geoff is still visibly angry and breathing hard, but the soft blush over his cheek and his softening gaze make it clear he knows he’s crossed the line.

“I claim,” Slackjaw repeats.

"That's not what I—"

"You never believed me," Slackjaw says, bitterness seeping into the words. "You think I made it all up."

"I don't," Geoff protests, looking at him with sheer desperation. "I'm sorry I said it like that, I didn't mean to. What I want to say is that this god— maybe you shouldn't trust it so much. They’re all tricksters, they—"

“That’s not true,” Daud cuts in, his voice a little strained, eyes fixed on the shore of Dabokva. Geoff looks at him with a strange, surprised expression. “Not all gods are tricksters. Not all of them belong to the Void. I left you a book at one point. I thought you’d read it,” Daud says, glancing sideways at Geoff. “Shame you didn’t.”

“I—” Geoff starts, but doesn’t get to finish, because at that moment Kirin makes his way to the upper deck, followed by the most astonishing machine any one of them has ever seen.

Geoff’s mouth falls open. Daud only allows himself a deeper breath, but he’s clearly impressed, too. Slackjaw can only stare in awe at the mastery of it, the resemblance to the actual Bird. Kirin smirks at their reaction, smug and flattered.

The machine is perfect — Slackjaw knows exactly what it’s made of, he’s watched Kirin put together all the clockworks and metal frames, the skeleton of wicker, the feather coating, but he can barely recognise this as a man-made thing. It looks so real, so imposing and terrifying, and yet so beautiful. It looks just like the one-eyed bird, kind and merciful.

“It’s magnificent,” Slackjaw whispers.

Kirin smiles in response, it’s brief but wonderfully joyous. For a moment, he’s not marked by his addiction and all the horrific thing that happened to him, he's just a marvelously talented kid who made history with his creation, who’s genuinely happy, and Slackjaw wishes he could see him like this more often.

“Is this…” Geoff says quietly, his wide-open eyes trained at the machine, which cocks its head to the side just like a real bird would. “Is this your god?”

The machine raises one wing and begins to preen its feathers in a way that looks so realistic it’s almost scary. So realistic, it reignites Slackjaw’s hope. But he’s not sure, not until he sees Kirin’s eyes rounding and hears the soft, astonished gasp coming from his mouth. Not until Kirin tries to drop to his knees and bow before their god, but the god doesn’t let him, its feathered fingers catching Kirin by the elbows and keeping him upright.

“You bow and kneel for no one, my child,” the one-eyed bird says in its soft, musical voice that carries the sound of sheep’s bells ringing in the pastures, the song of the river boatmen, the whisper of the waves licking the shores of their motherland. “Welcome home,” the Bird says, kissing Kirin on the forehead.

And then it turns to look at Slackjaw, its single white eye narrowed in a smile and brimming with pride, and Slackjaw can’t help, but sigh in a pathetic, teary way.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he chokes out after a while.

The one-eyed bird laughs and it’s the sound of fire crackling in the hearth and wind brushing through the grass of the endless steppe. The god reaches out and its white-feathered fingers touch the crown resting against Slackjaw’s temples — heavy, solid, corporeal.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my son,” the Many-Eyed God says, smiling.

Its teeth are black as the coal mined by the convicts of Utyrka.

⬩

The Gristolian crew docks their ship, casting fretful glances at the Bird, whose feathers shine with pearly white, bright emerald, and black so dark it hurts their eyes. They can’t wait to go back home and share their stories with Corvo, warn him against that heretic Prince and his entourage of criminals.

Slackjaw doesn’t mind that. With his god at his side, he feels safe and secure, sure of his success. He will keep his word, pledge his allegiance to the Crown, and then focus on Tyvia, paying Corvo no mind, unless he has to.

He looks down, to the docks, and sees people — his people — eyeing the vessel with clear worry, their backs hunched, some hands drawing near the belts holding knives or pistols. They don’t need to fear, but they don’t know it yet, all they can see right now is the colours and flag of the Imperial Navy.

Slackjaw takes a deep breath, turning to Geoff, pale and wide-eyed, looking at him with an expression that holds too many contradicting emotions to name them all.

“Promise me you’ll stay on the ship,” Slackjaw asks, gently, it’s a plea, not an order.

Geoff closes his eyes and nods. “I will,” he says, his voice quiet, barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry, Slackjaw,” he adds, opening his eyes and taking Slackjaw by the sleeve of his overcoat. “I shouldn’t have said that about your god, shouldn’t have doubted it or you, should’ve trusted you when you said you knew what you were doing. I’m sorry.”

Slackjaw smiles softly, resting his forehead against Geoff’s. “You were a soldier for a very long time,” he says. “You’re not used to such… unorthodox methods.”

Geoff snorts softly and then takes a deep, shaky breath, the hand on Slackjaw’s coat twitching.

“Still, I’m sorry,” he says.

“Apology accepted,” Slackjaw replies. “Keep an eye on Kirin, while I’m gone, okay?”

“Sure,” Geoff says, nodding. His nose brushes against Slackjaw’s and for some reason, it makes him sigh. “Slackjaw,” Geoff whispers.

“Yes?”

“Kiss me.”

So Slackjaw does, making it slow and deliberate, making Geoff gasp into his mouth, paying no mind to the Gristolian crew that’s staring at them in shock, paying no mind to Kirin, who looks away in embarrassment, paying no mind to the Many-Eyed God, who smiles at them with its countless pearly white teeth.

“Please be careful,” Geoff murmurs eventually.

“I will,” Slackjaw promises, bringing Geoff’s hand to his lips. “I love you,” he adds.

“I love you,” Geoff says, kissing him once more, shorter and more firmly this time.

The Many-Eyed God still smiles at them, but now its teeth are green and its three eyes shine like emeralds.

“Ready, my Prince?” it asks in a voice heavy and rich like the soil of the fields, like the salt in the mines.

“When you are,” Slackjaw says, smiling.

They step off the ship and right away, people gasp and drop to their knees, bowing to their god and the man it brings them. The cult of Everyman is still a novelty here, a way for Kalin to appeal to the Emperors, something the common folk of Tyvia performs to save their lives and please the officials. But each and every one of them has a shrine to the Many-Eyed God hidden in some corner of their home, adorned with the effigy of the bird, the place where they leave offerings of bread, milk, and honey, and bring their prayers, whispered in hushed voices, interrupted by terrified glances over the shoulder. Now they look at the Bird itself, walking among them, deep green and magnificent, coming to reward them for their faith, for never giving up on it.

“Stand up, my children,” the Many-Eyed God hums. “Stand and rejoice, for I have brought you your rightful Prince, Aleksandr Vsevolodovich, third of his name, who shall give you peace.”

The people rise to their feet with bated breaths, looking at Slackjaw with hope in their eyes, and Slackjaw bows his head to them and smiles.

“The tyrant won’t hurt you any longer,” he says, his voice booming through the docks. “Kalin’s regime ends today.”

He doesn’t say anything else, he didn’t come here to play a demagogue, after all, he doesn’t need to. They seem to realise that, looking at him with eyes brimming with emotion, pressing their right palms to their hearts and bowing their heads in respect. This time, Slackjaw allows it. This time, he knows he deserves it.

He walks the streets of Dabokva in a measured, steady gait. The crown against his temples makes him keep his head high and his back straight like a taut string. The news of his arrival spreads fast like the wind and soon enough he’s making his way through a crowd casting flowers and rice under his feet, cheering for their Prince. He greets them with a kind smile, a wave of a hand, a gentle word. Every now and then he sees the black masks of the Operators and the gold masks of the Overseers, frozen at the fringes of the crowd, staring at him and his god as they make their way to the Citadel. None of them dare to threaten him or the people who whisper his name through tears, reaching out to touch the edge of his coat, pushing their babies towards him so he can bless them.

It’s a long time before they reach the Citadel — Slackjaw, the Bird, and the many hundreds of people that follow them. There are guards in front of the building, trained, unyielding soldiers, as well as some Operators and a handful of the Overseers. The crowd behind Slackjaw’s back billows and whispers, their worry almost palpable, but he doesn’t listen to it.

He walks up the stairs to the Citadel without looking at anyone, the Many-Eyed God right beside him, its tar-black feathers rustling softly as it spreads its wings.

No one stops them. No one says a word. The only thing Slackjaw hears is weapons being laid on the ground and people kneeling before him.

⬩

The Citadel feels like home in a way Dunwall never has. The polished dark granite glimmers in the soft glow of the lamps, the carpets are soft beneath his boots, brightly coloured and rich in ornaments and imagery. The ceilings are painted with birds roaming the skies, from pink blushes of dawn, all the way to the deep reds and blues of twilight.

Slackjaw walks the gallery that repeats his footsteps and the rustle of the Many-Eyed God. ‘Welcome home,’ it tells him through the icons of Tyvian royals. Some of them have the same eye shape as him, some have his thick wavy hair, they all seem to share his penchant for extravagant patterns and bright colours.

He passes the golden-hued paintings of his parents and grandparents, the Korolev dynasty, then his great aunt Larisa, the last of the Olaskirs, followed by her ancestors all the way back to Yefim the Great. Then there are the Denikins, all four of them, and the Topeks — first Pavel and then his father, the great hero of Tyvia, their very first Prince, Karol. Slackjaw stops by his likeness for a moment and it’s almost like looking in the mirror.

They have the same unruly hair, though Slackjaw’s is a little darker, with a redder undertone. The same crooked, mocking smile. The same cautious, calculating eyes, only Karol’s are green, almost as green as the three-eyed bird’s.

He bows his head before the hero, slightly, with reverence, but without blind worship. And then he takes the great stairs, climbing up the white marble steps, brushing his fingers against the gold coating of the banister. The domed ceiling above his head is midnight blue and painted with stars. The very center of it is destroyed, though, scratched to the bare brick. Slackjaw sees the flecks of silvery-white at the very edges of this open wound and it’s enough to tell him what had once been painted on this night sky, whose likeness Kalin destroyed in his mindless fight against tradition.

Slackjaw looks over his shoulder at the five-eyed bird. The god doesn’t seem perturbed by this act of vandalism, but Slackjaw is angry for them both. The Bird meets his gaze, is five eyes blacker than the void, it’s teeth sharp and glistening in the dim light of the stairway.

“What do you want me to do, my child?” it asks in a voice like the darkest of nights, like an endless tunnel.

“It’s yours,” Slackjaw says, pointing not to the bricks stripped of paint, but the entire building. “The Citadel, the country, the people. It’s all yours. There’s a place for the Princes down there,” he says, looking to the gallery he’s just crossed. “And there’s a place for your likeness at the top of the Tyvian sky. Put it back there, right where it should be.”

The Many-Eyed God smiles, bowing its head, its countless teeth gleaming black, green, and then — for just a second — white. When it looks up, the fresco is restored: the starry midnight sky, the Bird’s wings spanning the entire dome, their feathers black and green and white, all at once. The beak is golden, open wide as if to swallow all the stars that reflect in the teeth — deadly, sharp, in a colour that’s three colours at once. Slackjaw looks at the eyes of the painted Bird and they’re burning — one with love, three with justice, five with hunger.

The god beside him hums, making the crystal chandeliers tremble and sing. The feathered fingers that land softly on Slackjaw’s shoulders are blacker than the void, so black it’s impossible to look at them and yet impossible to look away. The voice in Slackjaw’s ear comes from centuries away, it’s the voice of the earth itself, hot and ravenous.

“Thank you, my son.”

⬩

Kalin is waiting for him in the throne room that he insists to call the People’s Chamber.

There are no people there, though, Kalin is alone, left by his Presidium, left by his Operators, left by his personal guard. The mosaic of Karol Topek is on his right when Slackjaw steps into the room, and Kalin’s eyes immediately dart towards it, and then back to Slackjaw.

The Secretary wasn’t afraid before. Now he’s terrified.

“Who—?” he whispers, his hand moving to his hip, to the sword that looks too long for him, too wide.

“Aleksandr Vsevolodovich, Prince Korolev,” Slackjaw says. Even though he’s speaking quietly, his voice resonates through the room. “I’m here to reclaim my throne.”

Kalin flinches, closing his hand on the sword’s hilt. “There are no thrones here,” he says, doing his very best to keep his voice steady. “This is the People’s Republic, not a monarchy.”

“Where are the people, then?” Slackjaw asks. “Why aren’t they allowed to choose their leaders? Why aren’t they allowed to worship their god? Why are they overworked and hungry? Why are they trapped in the mines?”

He shakes his head, taking a step forward. Kalin tries to draw his sword, but it’s too long for him to do it in one smooth motion.

“This isn’t a republic,” Slackjaw says, watching Kalin’s struggle with the sword, making no move to draw his own weapon. He didn’t come here to spill blood, after all. “This is the State of Terror.”

Kalin finally gets the sword out and points it at Slackjaw’s chest. The blade hasn’t been sharpened in a while.

“This terror ends with you, Kalin,” Slackjaw says without flinching. “Your hunger destroyed this land and the people you claimed to do it all for. You outlawed our god, seeking solace in the Everyman. But this isn’t Everyman’s country, he has no power here, he won’t keep you safe from the vengeance of a god you tried to destroy the same way you destroyed your Prince and his family. You know the stories, Kalin,” Slackjaw says, watching the tip of the sword shake ever so slightly. “You know what our god does with people like you.”

Kalin’s eyes move to the Many-Eyed God, its beak wide open, its black teeth sharper than glass, thin as needles. He tries to say something, but the fear is choking him and all that comes out of his mouth is a desperate murmur.

“Those who hunger for what isn’t theirs to take and steal it shall be devoured,” Slackjaw says, repeating the long-forgotten line of a tale which is a prayer which is the law. “For their souls are as black as the feathers of the Bird of Fate, the Bird of Punishment and Death.”

“No,” Kalin whispers, it’s barely more than a breath accompanied by the movement of his lips. “No, please, have mercy—”

“There shall be no mercy for those who take another’s life,” Slackjaw says, hearing not himself but his nurse, the woman who was a mother to him in his early years, who gave him all she had to give, and prepared him for this moment, as if she knew it would come. “Every crime shall be punished and every punishment shall be of weight equal to the crime. And know, my children, that there’s no crime heavier than cutting life short.”

Kalin moves his lips one more time but before he can say anything, the black wings unfurl and the god’s mouth opens wider than ever, until all that Slackjaw can see is teeth, black and glistening with fresh blood. The Many-Eyed God moves so fast that it blurs before Slackjaw’s eyes — black teeth, black feathers, black eyes, and the golden beak snapping close with a thunderous sound that shakes the Citadel, waking up the chandeliers, calling for them to sing the song of freedom which drowns the sound of Kalin’s sword hitting the floor.

**vi.**

The next two weeks are hectic, to say the least.

Slackjaw spends them appointing a new government, receiving pledges of allegiance from the noble houses, reconciling with his — only slightly — embittered relatives, trying on way too many clothes, tasting too many dishes, overseeing the restoration of the Many-Eyed God as the primary deity of their state, redecorating the Citadel, restoring the throne room to its former glory, greeting the crowds gathered before his new home, the people coming to see him from all over the country.

He barely has time to sleep, let alone spend some time with Geoff, and he misses him terribly. It’s not a good time for him to get married, though, and no one but the official consort could accompany him during all the court obligations. So, just like all the years ago, right after the Rat Plague, they resort to leaving each other notes, little reassuring messages that keep them relatively content, but desperately yearning until they can finally take a break from this madness and rest.

In the end, his court isn’t as full of misfits as they thought it would be.

Slackjaw is unanimously accepted by his people, both the common folk and the nobles who need just one look at him sitting right below the mosaic of Karol Topek, to recognise him as their Prince.

Kirin, who shows up to the court only once, so that Slackjaw can name him his Royal Inventor, makes people whisper, but they’re whispers of awe and respect. The nobles know Kirin’s family and remember the circumstances of their exile, a story Slackjaw doesn’t ask about just yet. The nobles have been listening closely for the news of their young prodigy, have heard of his achievements, and are glad to have him back.

They’re not thrilled to see a young Gristolian as their Spymaster, but Thomas quickly wins them over by cracking a net of kalinists plotting to assassinate Slackjaw in just a few days since taking the seat.

Slackjaw, on his part, appeases the nobility by making Duchess Ohryzko his Prime Minister.

She’s a beautiful woman in her fifties, with a smile that makes people melt, and mind sharper than any knife. She calls Slackjaw ‘dearest cousin’ and makes it very clear that she always gets what she wants. Slackjaw likes that about her, it’s a lot easier to deal with that, than some pliant little lord, who’d plot behind his back.

Duchess Ohryzko — or cousin Irina, as she asks him to call her — has one more great value: she knows each and every one of the nobles, at the court and in the country. She’s dealt with them all her life, she knows exactly who can be bought, who poses no threat, and who needs to be kept away from the power. She knows everyone’s strengths and weaknesses, and shares that knowledge willingly, realising that a strong and loyal parliament will benefit them both.

It takes over a week for all of this to settle down, for Slackjaw to feel like he has it under control. But this day comes, at long last, allowing him to finally have a quiet evening with Geoff.

⬩

“Do we have any Serkonan cooks?” he asks cousin Irina, right after he dismisses the court that day.

“No, why would we?” she replies, scrunching her tiny, snub nose.

“Do any of them know how to cook something Serkonan?” Slackjaw presses.

She watches him for a moment, her eyes blue as the sky, shaded by the thickest lashes he’s ever seen.

“Not in the Citadel,” she says eventually. “I might find you a Serkonan cook in the city, though, if you really need one.”

Slackjaw meets her gaze and smiles, not very honestly. “I’d really appreciate that.”

“For tonight?” she asks ever-so-casually and he nods. “Consider it done, then, dearest cousin.” She gives him a brilliant smile that’s just as insincere as his own, and then her eyes light up with some wicked amusement. “Is it for that man that shares your bed?”

The look Slackjaw gives her is no longer polite. “That man,” he says quietly, “is my future consort. You should start treating him as such.”

Her mouth opens in a silent ‘oh’ and then she looks down. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says, pressing her fingers to her heart. “I beg for forgiveness.”

Slackjaw smiles, pleased to see that she knows her place and won’t cross some lines. “You may go, cousin. Thank you.”

⬩

He spends two hours trying on several variations of the same outfit — deep reds of the Tyvian royalty, embroidered with gold, trimmed with fur — until he finally loses his patience and makes a choice without listening to anything the tailor has to say. It’s going to be his coronation, after all, he’ll be the one who has to wear it for hours on end. And he wants to retire to his rooms, at last, have dinner with Geoff, accompanied by a glass or two of Tyvian red and finished in the enormous royal bed.

The tailor tries to get a word in edgeways, but Slackjaw dismisses him and tells him to come back in two days earliest. He’s tired of all the fuss everyone’s making around his clothing.

On the way back, he has to listen to Thomas' report on the security — both current and during the coronation — and by the time he makes it to his room, it’s almost late enough for dinner. Still, Geoff puts down his book with a worried frown.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

Slackjaw chuckles. “Well, hello to you, too,” he says, leaning over Geoff to kiss him. “I dismissed the court early so we could eat together. Missed you,” he adds, sprawling sideways over Geoff’s lap and kissing him again.

Geoff doesn't even attempt to act casual, instead wrapping himself tightly around Slackjaw.

"Missed you, too," he murmurs against Slackjaw's neck, his breath so hot, it makes Slackjaw gasp.

Geoff laughs softly and kisses Slackjaw right below the jaw, pulling on the skin with his teeth, gently enough to leave no mark, hard enough to make Slackjaw gasp once again.

He closes his eyes, forgetting his princedom, his upcoming coronation, his court, allowing the world to melt down to nothing but Geoff's mouth trailing down his neck and hands sliding under Slackjaw's shirt, the fingertips tracing the muscles of his stomach and chest and then nails sliding down his sides.

He keeps his eyes shut as Geoff's fingers make their way through the buttons of his shirt, from down up, and push the fabric off his shoulder, as Geoff's teeth graze against his collarbones, making him shudder and yelp. And then Geoff's mouth finds its way up, and the way it presses against his lips, the way their tongues brush in a slow, heated kiss makes the darkness under Slackjaw's eyelids explode in a fury of colours.

Geoff's fingers slide under the waistband of Slackjaw's trousers, quickly undoing the buttons and pulling down. Slackjaw lifts himself up on his knees, allowing the trousers to slip past his hips, and taking this as an opportunity to change the angle and kiss Geoff even deeper, making him moan desperately, yanking Slackjaw's underthings down and taking hold of his cock.

And right then, someone knocks on the door.

They both freeze for a second, breathing hard against each other's lips. The knocking repeats and then comes a voice,

"Your Highness? Your dinner."

Slackjaw groans.

"Let them go, I'm not hungry," Geoff says, pressing his mouth to the tender spot under Slackjaw's jaw, his hand still wrapped snugly around Slackjaw's throbbing cock, and Slackjaw so wants to listen and tell the footman to leave, but he doesn't.

"A moment," he yells, shooting Geoff an apologetic look and trying to get his clothing in relative order. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he whispers throatily, leaning down for one more lingering kiss.

When he opens the door, he's still disheveled, his hair a wild mess, face flushed, but the footman seems absolutely unperturbed by that. He bows his head and pushes the small trolley past Slackjaw and into the dining room, where he sets the table for two. Then he gives them one more bow.

"Her Grace, Duchess of Kaluga hopes Your Highness will enjoy the meal," he says and turns to leave.

Slackjaw narrows his eyes, trying to remember the young man’s name. He knows he’s the youngest child of some minor noble family, kind and focused more on doing a good job, than getting in Slackjaw’s good graces. Slackjaw has been thinking about making him his chamberlain.

"It's Igor, right?" he says eventually.

The footman stops, looking at him with a hint of surprise in his blue eyes. "Yes, Your Highness," he says. “Igor Alexeevich Mitin.”

Slackjaw smiles at him. Mitin, of course. Distantly related to both Irina Ohryzko and young Fyodor Kropotkin. No one would bat an eye if Slackjaw made him his chamberlain.

"Thank you, Igor. Please, be so kind as to pass my gratitude to the Duchess of Kaluga," he says.

Igor Mitin bows once more, his cheeks growing pink, his lips curling in a slight smile at this familiarity. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Slackjaw closes the door, locks it, just in case, and then turns to Geoff, who despite his earlier words is now examining every dish on the table with a delighted expression.

Slackjaw can't help but smile at the sight. Geoff doesn't mind Tyvian food, he's been a soldier long enough to learn to like everything that's put on his plate, but Serkonan cuisine holds a special place in his heart, it never fails to make him a little happier.

"I thought you'd like that," Slackjaw says, walking closer to the table and hugging Geoff from behind. "Cousin Irina helped me find a Serkonan cook for you."

Geoff sighs, turning around in his embrace to kiss him again, this time it's a brief, tender expression of gratitude.

"Thank you," he says, smiling.

They eat, chatting idly about books and art, about Slackjaw's coronation outfit, and the plethora of theatres in Tyvia that they'd both like to visit some time. They have a glass of Tyvian wine with the dinner and then, for the old times' sake, a bit of Dunwall whiskey.

And then they end up in the enormous, royal bed, where Slackjaw makes it a point to drive Geoff mad with pleasure, making it up for both that interruption earlier on and the long week of sharing a bed without touching. Geoff repays him in kind, and by the time the sky grows pale and birds begin to chirp in the trees surrounding the Citadel, they're both spent and overstimulated to the point where the only touch they can stand is pressing their foreheads together.

"I love you," Slackjaw whispers for what might be the hundredth time that night.

Geoff still shivers at the sound of those words. "Say it again," he asks.

"I love you," Slackjaw says, watching the soft, tender smile on Geoff's face. "I love you," he repeats a few more times, savouring the way it feels to say this out loud without fear, without worry, with utter conviction that he has long years of saying it over and over again before him.

⬩

Slackjaw flicks his cape and takes a critical look at his outfit in the mirror. The knee-high leather boots, slim black trousers, a crisp white shirt with buttons made of pearls and a stand-up collar closed with a brooch of emerald. A matching vest and jacket of red brocade embroidered with a golden floral motif of the northern steppes. And the cape — long and flowing, blood-red with a subtle design of birds and a trim of black fur. The only thing missing is the crown.

"Good job, Likhochkin," he says, smiling at the tailor, who lets out a shaky, relieved breath, bowing his head.

"Glad to hear that it's to your liking, Your Grace."

There's a soft knock on the open door. Igor Mitin, his freshly appointed chamberlain, bows as soon as Slackjaw looks that way.

"The Empress has arrived, Your Highness."

Slackjaw nods, taking one more look at his reflection and curling his lips into a crooked, smug smile.

His footsteps echo against the white marble of the stairs. He looks up at the painting of the Many-Eyed God on the ceiling, its feathers blindingly white against the dark sky, its three green eyes narrowed in amusement, its countless black teeth bared in primal hunger.

He enters the throne room and Karol Topek greets him with a smile that looks like his own. Slackjaw smiles back, nodding his head as he passes through the crowd gathered there for him. The numerous nobles from all over the country. His distant relatives. Dearest cousin Irina. Poor Thomas, forsaken by Daud who doesn't want to show his face so publicly. Kirin who looks like he's about to throw up, overwhelmed by the sounds, scents, and colours that surround him. Anton Sokolov showing his crooked teeth in a grin. Corvo who stares at him with wide, shocked eyes, only now realising just how much resemblance to his ancestors Slackjaw bears. The old Duke Theodanis from Serkonos. Queen Aisling of Morley with a handsome young noble, who doesn't take their eyes off the Empress. And finally Geoff, who watches him with a tender smile and a spark in his eyes that promises Slackjaw a very eventful night.

Slackjaw smiles wider, looking straight ahead to the young woman dressed in the royal blues of the Kaldwin dynasty, her features a curious mixture of her late mother and her Lord Protector. She watches him curiously, like a child that gets to meet someone they've heard so many stories about, and Slackjaw wonders what exactly she's heard about him.

"Your Majesty," he says, pressing his right palm to his chest and dropping onto one knee.

Emily Kaldwin nods.

"I present to you Aleksandr Vsevolodovich Korolev, third of his name, your undoubted Prince," she says, addressing the crowd in a clear, melodic voice. "Is Your Grace willing to take the Oath?" she asks him with a hint of a smile curving her lips.

"I am willing," Slackjaw replies, bowing his head.

"Do you promise and swear to govern the people of the Isles of Tyvia and Wei Ghon according to their respective laws and customs?" Emily Kaldwin asks.

"I swear," Slackjaw replies solemnly.

"Do you promise and swear to serve the Imperial Crown, abiding by its law and aiding it if need be to the utmost of your abilities?"

He can feel Corvo's gaze on his neck and he smiles just a little wider.

"I swear," he says.

Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin smiles, picking up a crown of Tyvian ore and blood-red rubies from a silk pillow. It almost slips in her hands, surprising her with its weight, but she holds it tight and gently places it on Slackjaw's head.

"May the gods guide you and bless your reign, Prince Aleksandr," she says.

Slackjaw stands up slowly, glad to feel the familiar pressure of the crown against his temples. He bows his head to Emily Kaldwin one more time, and steps towards his throne, made of metal and wood, lined with scarlet silk. He sits slowly and looks straight ahead, not at the crowd bowing to him, but at the One-Eyed Bird of Kindness smiling upon him.

"May your reign be fruitful, my sweet Prince," the god says in the voice of his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took us a while, but here we are at long last.
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who's made it till the end of this story, and even bigger thanks to those who left kudos and comments, you're amazing.
> 
> When I first started writing this fic, it was meant to be a simple love story of two men who fall for each other against their better judgment. A guard walks into a bar, meets a crime lord, and the rest is history, if you will. But how could I leave it at that, when Slackjaw is the son of a prince and Tyvia is a Slavic-coded country ruled by a fictional version of Lenin?
> 
> I had great fun creating the history and mythology of Tyvia from scratch, creating a brand new god for it, waving in all the references and easter eggs, exploring the relationships between the characters, both romantic and platonic. And I already miss this world, so do not be shocked if I end up writing something else in this verse at some point.


End file.
